


Queer Eye (For the Wizarding Guy)

by Magnolia822



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Sex, And wears jorts, Companionable Snark, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Explicit Sexual Content, HP: EWE, Harry has a beard, I'm Sorry, M/M, Makeover, Minor Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Misunderstandings, Oblivious Harry, Post-War, Quidditch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-09
Updated: 2018-04-09
Packaged: 2019-04-20 11:14:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14259741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Magnolia822/pseuds/Magnolia822
Summary: Harry’s life is fine. He might be a little disorganised, and maybe he needs a bit of a haircut, but he’s fine. Really. He doesn’t need a lifestyle intervention, especially when the one giving it is Draco sodding Malfoy and his team of queer fashion and design experts. Of course Harry’s friends disagree, and now he is stuck with Malfoy for a week. One of them might not survive.





	Queer Eye (For the Wizarding Guy)

**Author's Note:**

> I started reading Harry Potter fanfiction in 2008, but until now I've only written in other fandoms. I'm so excited to finally be returning to Harry/Draco, my first fanfic loves. Many thanks to [Sonofsilly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonofsilly) for the beta and [Omi-Ohmy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Omi_Ohmy/pseuds/Omi_Ohmy) for the Harry Potterism/Britpick. Any remaining mistakes are my own.
> 
> J.K. owns the characters; I just make them do things she disproves of ;)

“I’m sorry, you want me to what now?” Harry scratched at his beard, feeling not unlike a prisoner facing down a jury prepared to send him to the Dementors. 

Ron leaned forward. “Hermione thinks—” Hermione cleared her throat, giving Ron a _look_. “We think,” he corrected, “that you need an intervention.” 

“A life coach,” Ginny added.

“A makeover. Definitely a makeover.” Pansy wrinkled her nose, her blood red nails drumming on the table top, and Harry knew she was judging the ratty T-shirt and ripped jean shorts he was wearing. They did smell a bit . . . he hadn’t done washing in a few weeks. A month, maybe, tops. He doubted she could smell him from the other side of the room, however, especially with the scent of curry in the air.

“Think of it as a reimagining of the self—finding your true self,” Luna chimed in, her soft voice lilting. “That’s much more important than all of the rest.” 

“What if this is my true self?” He splayed his arms wide. 

His friends all stared at him, their faces wearing varied expressions of concern, save for Pansy, who looked as though she wanted to march him up for a shower and shave right then. They were all sat in the dining room at Grimmauld Place, having come over on the pretence of bringing food and beer. Since Kreacher had retired the previous year, albeit grudgingly and with Harry nearly dragging him to the house-elf senior living community, Harry was aware that the place had become a bit more . . . lived in. It wasn’t his fault. He worked 14-hour days most of the week, since he’d been promoted to Head Auror. Between his job and taking care of his godson and Andromeda, he didn’t have time for much else, certainly not cleaning or cooking or shopping for clothes or whatever his friends thought he should be doing. 

“So who is this life coach?” 

The group of them all looked at each other, as if daring one to go first. Hermione took the plunge. “It’s not exactly one person. It’s three. They do lifestyle interventions with a . . . erm . . . queer twist. For wizards.” 

Harry’s stomach bottomed out, his palms suddenly clammy. He had heard about this group—they were all the rage and had been featured on the front page of the _Prophet_ more than once for their unbelievable transformations. Not that Harry cared about that rag or followed its stories; he’d just seen it once or twice while grabbing a takeaway. The wizards in question were not his favorite people: Blaise Zabini, Zacharias Smith, and worst of all, the leader of the group, none other than Draco Malfoy. 

He hadn’t seen Malfoy in months, since a Christmas party hosted by Pansy, who was now strangely enough a mutual friend. Malfoy had attended with his latest fling, a Chaser from the Cannons, an attractive but dumb bloke with bulging biceps and an annoyingly sycophantic affect. All night it had been ‘Ha ha ha, Draco you’re so funny’ and ‘Draco you’re so smart’, enough to make anyone sick. Then in the early hours Harry had the misfortune to walk in on the two of them in Pansy’s loo, their tongues down each other’s throats, Malfoy’s trousers open and the Chaser’s hand moving in an unmistakable rhythm. Malfoy hadn’t even the decency to be ashamed. He’d looked straight at Harry over the Chaser’s shoulder and smiled, almost like he had enjoyed being caught with his pants down. 

It had been weeks before Harry had been able to get that image out of his head. It still made him irrationally angry. Bloody Malfoy and his bloody Chaser. 

“I don’t think this is a good idea.” 

Hermione pushed back her chair and came over to where Harry was standing; an innocent man just back from a trip to the loo. “Harry, take a look around this room.” 

He did. There were his friends, of course, and the food and beer they’d brought. Then there was the paperwork from the office that he often took home with him, piled up on one side of the long, dark wood table. It was a rather high and messy pile, but nothing that couldn’t be managed with a few minutes . . . or hours of sorting. Then there were the boxes of old china and broken trinkets he hadn’t quite gotten around to getting rid of yet, and the broken Muggle exercise bike he’d bought to try and stay fit but had never fixed. Perhaps that didn’t belong in the dining room. He shrugged. It looked okay to him. Except for the spiders on the ceiling. Those, he’d get rid of soon.

“When is the last time you went on date?” Ginny asked. Harry glared at her. Since they’d broken up after the war, he and Ginny had remained close friends, and she was one of the few who he trusted with the details of his personal life. She’d been the one he came out to all those years ago. She was also one of his most honest critics. 

“I date. Sometimes.” But not as often as Draco Malfoy, who as of the previous month had been seen with yet another fit Quidditch player. Not that Harry was intentionally following his news.

She rolled her eyes and stabbed a piece of chicken tikka with her fork. “No you don’t. You spend every free moment with Teddy, but he’ll be going away to school in a few weeks. Then what will you do?” 

“When’s the last time you took some time for yourself?” Hermione gave him a kind smile. “Just to relax and do something you enjoy?”

Harry folded his arms across his chest, the arrow zinging the target a little more than he would have expected. He hadn’t been flying in months, and his Quidditch pick-up team had voted in a new captain. He did miss it. 

“When is the last time you trimmed that beard?” Pansy asked. “That’s what I want to know. You look like a Yeti.”

Luna hummed in agreement, taking her girlfriend’s hand. “I’m so glad you don’t have a beard.” 

“Me too, my love.” Pansy kissed Luna’s hand. It was sweet, but Harry was also quite put out. 

He stroked his beard, which he was quite proud of thank you very much, and sought out Ron for a little masculine solidarity. Ron only grimaced at him and threw up his hands. “You could do with a shave, mate.” 

“Brutus!” Harry slumped back into his seat and took a swig of the Muggle beer Ron had selected. It was a session IPA, one of Harry’s favorites. He should have known the lot of them had something like this planned, sweetening him up this way first. “I can’t believe you lot.” 

“Harry.” Hermione put her hand on his shoulder. “I know this is a shock, and maybe not something you want right now, but maybe you can just try and see how it goes. It’s been ten years since school. You might be surprised. And if we’re wrong . . . then we’re wrong. But I think we aren’t.” Her eyes met Ron’s, and Harry could see that in this, at least, they were a united front. 

“I don’t want my dirty laundry on the front page of the damn _Prophet_ , ‘Mione. You know how I feel about that kind of stuff.” In fact, Harry’d had enough front page covers for ten lifetimes, and he was determined to avoid any more public focus on his personal life. It was no one’s business who he shagged, what he wore, or whether there were holes in his socks. Which there were, admittedly. 

Hermione patted his arm. “They aren’t going to be publishing this story, Harry. This is a private consultation, I have it on Malfoy’s word.” 

“Oh, Malfoy’s word. How reassuring.” 

Pansy straightened up in her chair, her expression cloudy. Any criticism of Malfoy always got her dander up. “If Draco says he isn’t going to make your business public, he won’t. Just imagine the backlash to his reputation as a fashion consultant if word got out he’d broken his contract with a client? He’d be ruined. You can trust he cares about what other people say about him, even if you don’t trust him yet.”

“Well, with that kind of reasoning, how can I say no?” Harry huffed an irritated sigh, and all eyes focused in on him. He gave up with a shrug. “When are they coming?” 

Ginny clapped her hands with far too much glee. “They’ll be here tomorrow at nine o’clock, sharp.” 

Saturday. His first day off in a fortnight. “Great,” said Harry, taking another sip of beer. “I can’t wait.” He could, however, be such a difficult case that the three of those self-help wankers would bugger right off, Draco Malfoy in particular. Harry didn’t need help. What he needed was a new group of friends and to get as pissed as possible.

***

Harry woke up with an aching head and a cottony mouth, his body feeling as though he’d been bludgeoned by the Whomping Willow. He groaned and reached for his wand under his pillow to Summon some hangover potion, only to groan again with disappointment when he realised he was freshly out. He sat up in bed and drank the rest of the warm beer he’d left on the bedside table. It would have to do, and beer breath would also probably annoy Malfoy, which was an added bonus.

The grey morning light illuminated the room, and a Muggle alarm clock he’d charmed to work in his wizarding house alerted him that it was almost nine o’clock, his hour of doom. He stretched and sniffed his armpit, considered taking a shower and then worried the three of them would find him naked in the bathroom, as he’d heard they were vicious in their tactics. Nothing he couldn’t handle, however. He hadn’t been made Head Auror for nothing. 

With a grin, Harry pushed back the covers and grabbed a T-shirt from off the Floor, pulling it over his head. He found a pair of jogging bottoms in the same pile and put those on, too, and then went downstairs to find coffee. 

He was out of that as well. 

“Bollocks,” said Harry, settling for a cup of English breakfast. He’d never been much of a tea drinker, probably because of the million pots he’d brewed over the years for the Dursleys. He’d never been allowed the scones and clotted cream they ate along with their tea either, and he still disliked scones to this day. 

The grandfather clock in the hallway struck nine just as Harry took his first sip, and there was a knock on the door. “Bloody buggering bollocks.” He’d half hoped his friends had forgotten to give Malfoy’s Miraculous Makeovers the coordinates to Grimmauld. 

“Well, might as well get this over with,” he muttered to himself, padding to the door. He cracked it open. 

“Potter, I know you’re in there.” It was Malfoy’s voice, aristocratic and sharp, his consonants clipped. “Let us in.” 

Harry closed his eyes, letting out a deep breath, and allowed the door to widen. He blinked in the light, feeling a bit like an owl, and stared at the three men on his front steps. 

Draco Malfoy stood proudly at the front of the group, his white-blond hair swept to the right, not slicked as he’d worn it in school, but neatly parted, the top longer than the sides. He wore a tailored suit that fit him well, some sort of blue color, and a silver pocket square. Blaise Zabini was to his left, dressed more casually but still impeccably in a white shirt and dark jeans. And then there was Zacharias Smith, who had grown his hair to his shoulders and now sported a trimmed beard. He was the only one smiling at Harry, and he wore a bright print shirt that probably would have burned Harry’s retinas if he stared for any prolonged period of time. Harry wondered what the Hufflepuff was doing with the snakes. 

“Hey, Harry,” said Zacharias, giving him a wink. 

“Hello, Potter,” said Zabini with a nod.

Malfoy just looked him up and down. “Salazar, it’s worse than I feared. Get inside before someone sees you.” With that, he pushed past Harry and motioned for the others to follow.

“The house is warded. No one can see us,” said Harry, but he didn’t think Malfoy was listening. He swept his way into the living room, gasped dramatically at the elf head hanging above the fireplace, and started talking to the others in furious, but hushed, tones. Harry sipped his tea and scratched his balls with emphasis, leaning against the door jamb. He tried to see what the others saw: the cobwebs, the piles of paperwork which had apparently infested this room too, the odd holey sock. It didn’t look great, but it didn’t warrant an intervention. He didn’t think.

“Potter,” said Malfoy. “Is this where you do your . . . entertaining?” If his nose went any higher, it would have been in the clouds. The image flashed before him of a much more unlaced Malfoy, and he flushed without meaning to. He wondered if Malfoy remembered that night. 

“Sometimes.” 

“Where do people . . . sit?” asked Zabini. Harry turned around. The sofas were cluttered with clothes and rumpled blankets; sometimes Harry fell asleep down here. On the table, there were old takeaway containers and a few empty beer bottles. Funny how he hadn’t noticed that before. 

“Oh. I’ll just.” Harry Vanished the mess with a snap and wave of his fingers. 

“You did that wandlessly,” Malfoy said, his voice holding a hint of begrudging admiration. “I heard you’d gotten more powerful.” 

“Head Auror, Malfoy.” Harry took a sip of his tea. 

“Now we just have to work on the decor.” Zacharias was eyeing one of the paintings on the wall: a monstrosity of flowers and cats that had been a gag-gift from Ron on Harry’s twenty-eighth birthday. He had insisted Harry hang it in a place of honour, and Harry had humoured him. The cats meowed plaintively as if they knew their days were numbered. “That’s a little too Umbridge for me.” 

Malfoy came closer. He rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Merlin, Potter, you stink. And is that alcohol I smell? You’re not drunk, are you?” 

Harry smirked. He knew Malfoy didn’t drink alcohol; according to Pansy, he’d stopped when he realised it might damage his complexion. Harry had laughed at the revelation, thinking Malfoy vain, but his skin was quite nice. He didn’t look a day over twenty-one, though they were nearing thirty. “Not anymore, but thanks for the reminder.” 

He Summoned a pint of Firewhiskey and poured a generous amount into his half-empty cup. “Anyone else?” He held the bottle in offering. 

“I’ll take a dram,” said Zabini, Conjuring a glass. “I have a feeling I’ll need it.” 

“None for me,” said Zacharias, who was studying the fraying upholstery of one settee. 

Malfoy just sniffed. “Really, Potter?”

Harry gave him a fake smile. “If you don’t like it, you can leave.” 

“I’m afraid I can’t,” said Malfoy. From his pocket, he procured a tiny roll of parchment, which he then spelled to grow and unfurl, holding it out for Harry to read. _Contract for Services_ it declared at the top. Harry scanned the rest of the document, his eyes glazing over with the legalise. “Do you see what it says in paragraph sixteen, clause nine? You can return everything back to the way it was if you change your mind once the contract expires. And you can terminate the agreement at any time.”

“Okay, great,” said Harry, sagging with relief. Getting out of this would be easier than he thought. “How do I do that?” 

Malfoy was the one smirking now. “By proving you don’t need our services.” 

“I don’t.” 

“I think we beg to differ, as do your friends, as does your poor house,” said Malfoy, gesturing around. “This is the Black family home, and it’s suffering from neglect. Can’t you feel it?” 

Harry downed the rest of his whisky-tea. “I don’t feel anything.” It was true—he didn’t feel connected to the house that Sirius had left him. It was the place he lived, but it had never really felt like a home. “Only slightly pissed.” 

“And you,” Malfoy continued. “Have you seen yourself in a mirror lately?” 

There was a mirror somewhere, Harry was sure of it; he’d used it to shave several months ago. He just hadn’t been able to find it since, and even if he had found it, he didn’t have the time to gaze at himself for hours and contemplate his beauty as Malfoy surely did. Not that Malfoy was beautiful. He did smell nice, though. “So you’re saying I can’t actually fire you.” 

“Not at the moment.” Malfoy’s nostrils flared, making him look a bit like a pointy, attractive horse. 

Harry might have asked about the repercussions for a breach of contract, but then he remembered his friends, especially the look that had passed between Ron and Hermione. They all had enough to concern themselves with, and he didn’t want them to be worried about him. He was fine, and he wasn’t afraid of Malfoy and his little crew. If he needed to put up with them for a few days to prove that was true, than so be it. He gritted his teeth. 

Zabini, who was consulting with Zacharias about the state of the wallpaper, reached for the bottle of Ogden’s again. “You don’t mind?” 

“Be my guest. Okay,” he said, turning back to Malfoy. “So what do I have to do to get rid of you?” 

“Well,” said Malfoy, “let me tell you a bit about how the three of us work together.” He was all formality now, stepping back from Harry and snapping his fingers. The other two flanked him, their eyes assessing. “Zacharias handles organization and decor. He’s certified by a Muggle university, so he brings a modern, updated style to the traditional wizarding residence.” Zacharias nodded along, looking pleased with himself. Harry wondered if he was still the wanker he’d been in school. “Blaise will help with food, meal planning and the social aspects of your transformation.” Zabini raised his glass, his dark, muscular forearms highlighted to great effect by his rolled cuffs. Draco cleared his throat in an irritated fashion, and Harry’s eyes snapped back to him. “And I . . . I will see to your personal hygiene, wardrobe, and . . . your self-actualization.”

“I’m sorry, did you just say self-actualization?” Harry couldn’t believe Malfoy of all people would be qualified for such a task. His skepticism must have shown in his expression. Malfoy pursed his lips. 

“Yes. And first things first,” said Malfoy. “Zacharias will start drawing up plans for organization and remodelling while Blaise investigates the state of the kitchen and larder. You and I need to go upstairs, now, and get you cleaned up.” 

Harry’s heart skipped a beat . . . Malfoy didn’t mean he was going to actually _watch_ Harry shower, did he? 

“Oh, Merlin, don’t be such a prude,” said Malfoy, rolling his eyes. “It’s nothing I haven’t seen before. Now get your arse up those stairs right now and please, I beg of you, prove to me there’s a bar of soap in this house.” 

So he did mean it. Harry gulped, hoping his sudden nervousness wasn’t apparent. He affected a lazy grin. “All right, Malfoy. If you wanted to get me naked, all you had to do was ask.” 

Now it was Malfoy’s turn for alarm. His eyes flicked down the length of Harry’s body, an almost imperceptible movement that Harry picked up on thanks to his training, but he wasn’t sure if it was with interest or disbelief. “Please, Potter.” 

No smart comeback. How interesting. Harry scored the internal points for Gryffindor to himself. Maybe winning would be easier than he thought.

***

Upstairs, Malfoy ushered Harry into the bathroom and lit the sconces. He turned around, his gaze flitting from the mildewed shower to the peeling paint to the dirty towel on the Floor.

“I do have soap.” Harry leaned into the shower and drew out a sliver of a green, minty bar he’d been using and needed to replace. “I . . . er. Need to get to the shops.” The bit of soap slipped from his hand and Vanished with a flick of Malfoy’s wand.

“Salazar, give me strength,” Malfoy whispered more to himself than to Harry. He closed his eyes and then slowly opened them, giving Harry a tight smile. “Okay. So walk me through your morning routine.” 

“Routine.” Harry fiddled with the tie at the waistband of his jogging bottoms; they were too big and slid low on his hips. “Well, I get up. Drink some coffee. Then I get dressed and head to work.” 

“And you shower and groom your beard . . .” Malfoy gestured at his face. 

“When I have time. Sometimes at night. I’m not a morning person.” His bottoms slipped again, and he may have been imagining it, but he thought Malfoy might have looked. 

“And personal care potions. I already know I’m going to regret the answer to this, but do you use anything to clean and condition your hair, your beard?”

 

“I do wash my hair, Malfoy,” said Harry, his irritation rising. He snatched a blue bottle from the shower stall. “It’s Muggle. For men. And there’s still some left.” He held it out so Malfoy could read the label. 

“I see.” Malfoy appeared to be struggling under a great weight. “I understand you’re busy, Potter. Being the head of magical law enforcement isn’t an easy job, surely.” The words, although gritted out, were surprising for their understanding all the same. Harry waited as Malfoy’s jaw worked. “But you do owe yourself, and your staff--all of us, really--a little more attention to how you present yourself. People, and I know not who those people may be, but I’m sure they exist, look up to you. You don’t have to spend hours in front of your . . . nonexistent . . . mirror to look good.” 

He reached into the inner lining of his suit jacket and drew out a small zipped bag, which expanded when he whispered a charm. “Here is your personally formulated grooming kit,” said Malfoy proudly. He handed it over to Harry, who couldn’t help the bloom of curiosity as he peeked inside. There were three bottles, a comb, and an instrument that looked almost, but not quite, like a razor. 

“This potion,” said Malfoy, drawing out the largest bottle with a white, creamy substance inside, “is for your hair, beard, and body. It’s a cleanser and conditioner, and you’ll find it reacts specifically to your chemistry, so it’s best not to let anyone else use it. No . . . overnight guests. Or they might come out of the shower with ridiculous hair.” 

Harry wrinkled his nose and took a sniff. “It smells nice. Wait, how does it do that?” He knew how these sorts of potions worked; like polyjuice, they needed a bit of the person’s hair, skin--or bodily fluids--to function. “What did you use?” 

“Oh, don’t be dramatic, Potter. Weasley snipped a bit of your hair the other day at the office while the two of you were Auror-ing, or whatever it is you do.” 

“Ron!” 

“It hardly matters,” said Malfoy. “Your hair is already a disgrace.” 

Harry frowned and selected the second bottle. “What’s this?” 

“This is for your hair after you shower and towel off. You’ll need to put a small amount in the palm of your hand and work it through from tip to ends. I’ll show you how once you’ve showered and we’ve trimmed your hair.” 

“Wait,” said Harry. “You’re not going to do it, are you?” He didn’t like the sound of Malfoy anywhere near his face with scissors. “I already have one scar.” 

“Very funny, Potter, your sense of humour is as always unparalleled. Next, this: a potion for your beard, to keep it soft and neat. Of course here is your basic comb. I trust I don’t need to explain its function, although I do wonder given your current state. And this,” he pointed at the metal razor-like object, “is a shaper for your beard and any other body hair you might like to . . . trim. It’s spelled to work with a simple charm.” There was a slight flush on his cheeks, and Harry realised they were standing quite close together. Malfoy was holding the body trimmer like he didn’t know what to do next. “That’s it.” 

“That doesn’t seem too bad,” said Harry, looking over the items. Since his hands were full, his jogging bottoms were riding dangerously low on his hips, and the trail of hair leading from his navel to his cock was fully on display. If he shimmied slightly, the material would fall to the Floor, and Harry wasn’t wearing any pants.

“I’ll just . . . leave you to it, then,” said Malfoy, taking a slow step backward, a confused expression on his face. The sudden tension in the room made Harry’s pulse flutter as he wondered what it would actually be like for Malfoy to be there while he showered. The idea of Malfoy watching him, while unsettling, was slightly arousing, maybe even _because_ it was unsettling. 

“You’re not staying?” Harry raised an eyebrow. He didn’t know why he did it, but Malfoy didn’t seem to take the bait.

“I’ll give you ten minutes in the shower, Potter.” Malfoy was all business again. “Then we’ll work on that hair of yours.” 

Obeying Malfoy seemed easier than arguing, especially since Harry did need a shower, and the potions Malfoy had brought him smelled a lot nicer than the Muggle stuff. He nodded and watched as Malfoy fled the scene, almost as though he’d been burned. 

Thirty minutes later, Harry was sat on a chair in the middle of the bathroom, shirtless and with a towel wrapped around his waist, scatterings of hair on the Floor all around as Malfoy snipped and hummed and snipped some more. He seemed once more poised and in control, and he was chattering on about what he was doing and how frequently Harry should cut his hair to maintain the ‘look’. 

“If you need a good salon, there is a new one in Diagon I can recommend most unreservedly. Just ask for Millicent.” 

“Bulstrode?” Harry almost snorted. If he could think of one person clumsier and with worse fashion sense than himself, it was Millicent. 

“Yes, she’s quite an accomplished hair artiste, actually. She does mine. She trained in France.” 

Harry bit his lip, as the first thing that came to mind was a compliment. He liked the way Malfoy was wearing his hair, but Malfoy didn’t need to know that. “If I can find the time.” 

Malfoy rolled his eyes. “Indeed, the world may fall apart if you so much as leave your desk for an hour.” He had started in on Harry’s beard now, showing him how to turn on and off and adjust the clippers. 

“It might. You never know.” Harry allowed his face to be adjusted this way and that, Malfoy’s hands warm and efficient. 

“It’s a mild disappointment to see your inflated sense of self-importance hasn’t diminished over the years, though I can’t say I’m surprised. Real humility might have made my fingers tremble.” 

“I am the savior of the wizarding world, after all. Mind you don’t nick my skin; it’s a capital offense.” He was teasing now. He liked how it made Malfoy so prickly. 

Malfoy groaned. “You are such a prat. But . . .” he stepped back, turning off the clippers, and smiled. “A prat with excellent hair, if I do say so myself.” 

While Harry had been showering--and enjoying his new potion, to his surprise--Malfoy discovered a full length mirror, which was now propped against the back of the bathroom door. Harry stared at his reflection, hardly able to believe what he saw. 

Malfoy had trimmed the sides of his hair closely but kept the top longer, not quite as long as his own. He had used the hair potion to style and tame it, but the result wasn’t shiny or crunchy like Harry had worried about. It looked good. And with the bulky portion of his beard removed, his jaw looked square and shapely, the lines clean and fresh. He looked like a stranger, but also more like himself than he had, well, in years. 

“What do you think?” Malfoy asked. He was standing behind Harry, regarding him in the mirror. His eyes were unreadable. 

“I think it looks . . . great, Malfoy. Er. Thank you.” 

Then Malfoy smiled, and Harry wondered if he’d ever seen that genuine expression on his face before. He had seen plenty of smirks and sneers, but never this upturn of the lips that made his eyes light up, his features flush with pleasure. He had taken off his suit jacket but hadn’t rolled up his shirt sleeves. Because of the mark, Harry realised. He was trying to keep it covered in spite of the heat in the bathroom, as if Harry hadn’t seen the damn thing before, as if he hadn’t seen the snake and skull on the arms of former Death Eaters on a regular basis since he’d become an Auror. He wondered if Malfoy was ashamed. It was so warm Malfoy was sweating, in fact, the material of his shirt damp under his arms. For a strange moment, Harry wondered what would happen if he turned around in his chair and tugged Malfoy into his lap. 

“And do you think you’ll be able to manage upkeep on your own?” Malfoy held up the trimmers with one hand. With the other, he absently brushed the stray hairs from Harry’s bare shoulders, sending a little jolt through him. His nipples pebbled in spite of the warmth of temperature, obvious in the mirror, and Harry wasn’t imagining Malfoy’s eyes tracking down to his chest and lower. 

Another point for Gryffindor.

Maybe it wouldn’t be terrible to spend a few minutes in the morning on himself, if this was the end result. “Yeah. I think I can.” 

“Great.” Malfoy swallowed, yanked back his hand, and then spun around to retrieve his jacket. “Now let’s move on to the disaster that is your wardrobe.”

***

By the end of the day, Malfoy had rejected nearly all of Harry’s clothes, opting to keep his newest work robes, a few T-shirts, the odd pair of trousers, and a tight pair of Muggle jeans Harry’d purchased on a whim, but never worn. The rest, Malfoy Vanished to an undisclosed location, and Harry wondered if it would be a misuse of Ministry resources to send a group of Aurors to find his things. Malfoy just laughed, leaving Harry with nothing but assurances they would go shopping the following day.

“I have to work tomorrow,” Harry protested. It was a Sunday, but he was behind on paperwork. He was frankly always behind on paperwork, and taking this day off had been a luxury he couldn’t afford to repeat.

“Ah, didn’t Granger or Weasley tell you?” Malfoy sounded almost sympathetic.

“Tell me what?”

Malfoy cocked his head. “You’re officially on holiday for the week with permission from the minister himself. Deputy Goldstein will be overseeing the office in your absence. I have an Owl here if you don’t believe me.” 

Harry took the parchment, which confirmed what Malfoy had said. He knew he was gaping like a fish, but he couldn’t seem to close his mouth. He wasn’t sure how to feel. Tony, his second-in-command, hadn’t uttered a word about it the previous week. This also meant that Ron had gone behind his back to speak to Kingsley, and that Kingsley likely knew about this whole stupid lifestyle intervention. Knew about it, and approved. 

“We’ll be back tomorrow, same time,” said Malfoy, breaking Harry’s train of thought. The crew had packed up to leave, and all three of them looked tired. Zacharias had already started to go through the clutter and organize the downstairs living areas, in spite of Harry’s protests, and Zabini had done an assessment of the larder and kitchen, which he reported loudly to Malfoy needed ‘a lot of work’. Tomorrow, he would walk Harry through some simple meal preparations after the shopping. 

“You look really good, Harry,” said Zacharias, giving him another little wink as he grabbed a handful of Floo Powder. Harry was wearing a T-shirt and the jeans Malfoy had let him keep. “You shouldn’t hide that arse of yours in baggy trousers.” Harry felt warmth rise to his cheeks as Zacharias gave him an appreciative up and down. He wasn’t used to being hit on, mostly because he never went anywhere. 

“Enough, Smith, or Potter’s already large head will inflate to such proportions, the walls won’t contain him,” said Malfoy, ushering Zabini in front of him. The two Z’s, as Harry had come to think of them, disappeared one after the other into the flames. Malfoy held back for a moment. 

“Get some rest tonight,” he said. “Don’t drink yourself into oblivion. We have a lot of work to do in the morning.” 

“I’ll drink whatever I damn well please,” Harry groused. But the truth was, drinking was far from his mind. He was worn out and wanted nothing more than to crash into his bed, fully clothed. 

“It’s your liver,” said Malfoy with a haughty sniff. But then his expression softened, an almost imperceptible movement around his mouth and eyes. “You did well today, Potter.” And with that, Malfoy grabbed a handful of powder and vanished with a _whoosh_.

A sudden silence settled over the house, which almost seemed to sag in disappointment. Harry took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He usually liked to be alone, but he almost missed the inane chatter about paint shades and mood lighting and whole foods. 

He wondered what he was in for the following day.

***

“You’re wearing the same clothes as yesterday,” said Malfoy, who himself was most certainly not. Instead of a suit, he wore a pair of grey wool trousers and a purple shirt with a fine dotted print. He folded his arms as he regarded Harry, and the shirt displayed the rangy, defined muscles of his shoulders and biceps.

“You threw away all my clothes.” Harry didn’t want to admit he might be wearing the jeans because of the compliment he’d received. 

Malfoy saw through him, however. “As long as you didn’t do it to get in Smith’s trousers. He only fucks leather daddies, for your information.” He smiled devilishly, and Harry wondered where he’d learned gay Muggle slang. “At least you used my potions.” Malfoy stepped closer and ran his hands through Harry’s hair, which he’d attempted to style that morning. He’d thought he did a pretty good job, but Malfoy was frowning in concentration, his fingers warm on Harry’s temples. Harry closed his eyes, enjoying the touch in spite of himself, but it was gone in an instant. “There. Perfect.” 

Harry blinked. Malfoy was looking at him with a curious expression he couldn’t quite name. “So where are we going, exactly?” 

“Diagon Alley. My personal tailor.” 

“Another Slytherin?” Harry arched an eyebrow. He was starting to think this makeover enterprise was entirely for the benefit of providing Malfoy and his Slytherin cronies with a living. That thought led to another. “Wait a second, who _is_ paying for this?” 

Before Malfoy could answer, they were both distracted as Zacharias entered the room with an army of paint cans bobbing along behind him, humming to himself. He gave Harry a bright smile. “Soon enough, you won’t even recognize this place.” 

“Er. Okay.” Harry wasn’t sure how to feel about that. He didn’t have time to protest, though, since Malfoy was already whisking him toward the Floo and grabbing a fistful of powder.

“Don’t worry about the money, Potter. Diagon Alley. Nott’s Fine Clothing.” 

“Theodore Nott?” He’d heard Nott had gotten involved in wizarding fashion, but he hadn’t seen the git in years. Harry shook his head, confused but compelled to follow. 

Seconds later, they were spat out in a large, opulent space, where the only furnishings to speak of were a leather sofa and a gilt coffee table. The carpet was a lush, velvet red, and there were several changing cubicles. Through the door beyond, Harry could hear music playing and the murmur of people talking. “I thought you said there were clothes for sale here?” 

Malfoy rolled his eyes. “There are, in the front of the shop. But Nott isn’t just a tailor, Potter; he’s a designer. We’re going to do your measurements and dress you, so that your clothes actually fit.”

“That sounds expensive. And unnecessary. All I need are a new pair of trainers and some basic clothes.” 

“I told you not to worry about the money.” Draco flicked his wand and a bell rang in the room with the music. 

“I’m not worried. I have plenty.”

“Indeed. Then you won’t mind splurging. You need dress robes and clothes for going out. I’m told . . . I’m told you’re interested in dating.” Malfoy was staring at the cuff of his sleeve, his expression carefully neutral. 

Harry blanched. “Who in Godric’s--Pansy. It was Pansy, wasn’t it.” While he didn’t think Ron or Hermione would get that specific about his personal life with Malfoy, Pansy was notorious for sticking her nose where it didn’t belong. Of his friends, she was also one of the most vocal about his sex life, or lack thereof. 

“I’m not a tattle-tale, Potter,” said Malfoy, but the way he said it made Harry absolutely sure he was right.

“Well, I suppose I’d consider dating but all of the Quidditch players are already taken.” He looked directly at Malfoy, daring him to rise to the challenge.

“Oh, I’m happy to share my leftovers with you, Potty. A man only has so much time in the day.” Draco put his hands on his slim hips, and Harry couldn’t help admiring his figure, which of course was what Malfoy intended. Harry didn’t like the thought of Malfoy with burly Quidditch player after burly Quidditch player. In fact, it made his guts twist unpleasantly. Bloody Malfoy. 

He was too distracted to think of a good comeback. “Whatever. Look, can we get on with--”

Theodore Nott, dressed from head to toe in sleek black clothes, entered the room with his arms wide and a smile on his face. “Draco, so good to see you. Potter. Welcome to my shop.” He was slightly less rabbity than Harry remembered, but just as thin and tall. 

“Thanks.” Harry shifted from one foot to the other, uncomfortable under Nott’s assessing gaze. He was starting to feel like a side of beef on auction. Nott held his hand to his chin and walked around Harry very, very slowly, until he finally clapped his hands together. 

“Good. Why don’t you start by telling me what sorts of events you’ll be attending. Draco says you’ll be appearing at several social functions.” 

“I hardly have time for social functions, but sure. Whatever Malfoy says.” Harry grit his teeth to hold back his irritation. He’d agreed to go through with this if only to prove he didn’t need the damn intervention, and he wasn’t going to show his temper in front of Nott. 

“Potter needs dress robes, Theodore. He needs clothes to show off his figure to its best advantage. I think a bit of colour would suit him, maybe a bit of pattern.” 

“Ah yes, I agree.” 

Harry’s alarm bells rang. He thought of Zacharias’s shirt from the day before, the bold yellow and orange flowers that screamed for attention. “Wait, what sort of patterns? I don’t want to look--”

“Queer?” Malfoy offered, his voice soft. 

Harry huffed a sigh. Malfoy was obviously referring to his public outing by Rita Skeeter, a front page expose of his bisexuality courtesy of a previous fling who’d wanted his thirty seconds of fame. Everyone assumed he was trying to hide his preferences. But the press had it all wrong; his close friends all knew, and he wasn’t ashamed. “No. No, that’s not what I mean. I just prefer plain clothes.” 

“I’m sure there’s an Auror joke in there somewhere, but . . .” Malfoy and Nott exchanged a look, and Nott retreated a few paces to give them some privacy. “Potter,” said Malfoy, keeping his voice low, “I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but you already stand out wherever you go. I promise I won’t force you into anything that will make you feel uncomfortable. But let’s just take a look at what Nott has to offer and see if you like it. I know this is probably mad of me to ask, but do you trust me?” 

Harry didn’t know why, but for some reason, he did trust Malfoy, at least enough to see what he was talking about. After all, Harry liked his new haircut. It couldn’t hurt just to try on a few things. “All right,” he said, turning back to Nott. “But I draw the line at Hawaiian shirts.” 

The two of them looked confused. Harry sighed. “Just nothing Professor Trelawney would wear.” 

“You’re questioning our sense of taste? The man who owned a shirt with a tie painted on?” Malfoy lifted his pointy nose, and Harry didn’t bother defending it, though it had been another silly gift from Ron. “I know you think our intelligence is substandard, but we did manage to pass our NEWTs without your help, Potter. We’re professionals.” 

“All right,” Nott said with a tired sigh, and Harry wasn’t sure if it was directed at him or Malfoy. “Let me take your measurements and see what we can do.” 

Harry stood on a square velvet box in the center of the room and held his arms up as Nott’s charmed measurement tape wrapped around one limb and then another, shocking him as it unfurled right under his bollocks to measure his inseam. He might have heard Malfoy snicker, but when he turned his head, Malfoy was hiding his mouth under his cupped hand. 

“You have a nice physique, Potter,” said Nott approvingly as the tape’s findings appeared on a piece of parchment floating in the air between them. Harry was starting to wonder if every Slytherin from their year was gay or at least bi-curious. 

“Thanks. It must be all the takeaway, coffee, and beer.” He hadn’t had much time for exercise lately, and in spite of Nott’s praise, he knew his stomach was softer and rounder than it had been when he was out in the field on a regular basis. Chasing dark wizards through alleys and flying on a daily basis had a way of keeping one in peak physical condition, but now he mostly sat at a desk. 

“If you keep eating like that into your thirties, you’ll regret it,” said Malfoy. 

Harry pursed his lips and sucked his belly in a little. Malfoy smirked. 

Nott flourished his wand and the tape measure rolled up and disappeared. “I think we’ll focus on pieces that will highlight your attributes and fit you well without drawing a lot of extra attention your way. How does that sound?” 

“That sounds good, actually.” 

“First things first. Let’s start with an outfit you might wear out on a date or to a Muggle establishment.” 

Harry was starting to sense a theme. “Okay.”

The trousers Nott chose were a soft material in a navy blue; they almost felt velvety to the touch. The shirt was light grey and form-fitting, though not too tight, with a very fine print similar to Malfoy’s. On his feet, Nott helped to wrestle him into a new pair of short dragonhide boots that Nott called ankle boots. The whole thing was topped off with a black leather jacket. Harry blinked at himself. He looked like a well-dressed Muggle, with a slight wizarding twist. 

“What do you think?” Nott and Malfoy were standing next to each other, both of their faces impassive. 

Harry turned around to get a glimpse of his arse in the mirror. The trousers were tight but not obscenely so. He actually looked a bit slimmer. “I think . . . it’s not terrible. I like it.” 

Nott clapped his hands. “Wonderful. Let’s move on to the next look.” 

The next look turned out to be another Mugglish outfit, and then another, this one for work. Finally, they came to dress robes, which Harry had admittedly not bought in years. He very much liked the subtle dark green Malfoy selected, even if it was a Slytherin colour. “Your eyes make it pop,” said Nott, and Malfoy seemed to agree. The two house-elves who had been helping dress Harry were pleased as well; they were apparently free, wearing little elf-sized designer clothes that were ironically more stylish than anything Harry owned. Nott gave them living wages and a flat to live in on top of his shop. Their ears flopped excitedly every time Harry approved of an article of clothing. 

“They seem to like working here,” said Harry, when one of the elves, an excitable creature named Whimsy, disapparated with instructions from Nott.

“Oh, this is one of the most sought after jobs for elves,” said Nott. “As you can imagine, they just love working with clothes.” 

Harry nodded as Whimsy reappeared with a pile of pristinely folded dress shirts, her smile beaming.

It was all very confusing, not hating Malfoy or Nott, even finding their company enjoyable. He didn’t even complain when Malfoy wrangled him into a pair of braces. They actually suited him, and, matched with a pair of sleek trousers and a smart jacket, looked modern rather than stuffy--in Malfoy’s words, of course. 

By the time they were finished and all of the packages sorted, Harry was sure he’d spent thousands of galleons. His chest twinged with the guilt over the extravagance, but Whimsy looked so jubilant it was hard to feel bad for long. Plus, Malfoy was eyeing Harry with something like appreciation. 

“You’re the perfect canvas, Harry Potter,” said Nott. “Come back any time. I have a few hats I think you’d look great in for the winter.” 

“With the swollen head he’s gotten from all this fawning, he won’t be able to fit in any hats. Come, Potter.”

Harry shook Nott’s hand, wondering how this was suddenly his life, and then he felt the warm grip of Malfoy’s hand around his other wrist tugging him gently, his fingers strangely familiar and almost possessive. “One more stop,” said Malfoy.

This time, Malfoy Apparated them to a street adjacent a Muggle shopping district, and Harry was shocked when a few minutes later, they were stood in front of an opticians. Frames were placed artfully on the faces of blank-looking storefront mannequins, all who looked much posher than Harry. 

Harry clutched his glasses and frowned. “Oh no.”

“Oh yes,” said Malfoy, pulling him along. Inside the shop, it was cool and quiet with only a few other customers. A salesperson quickly approached.

“They sell Armanis here,” whispered Malfoy with far too much glee in his voice. His breath tickled the nape of Harry’s neck. 

“How do you even know what Armani is?” Harry whispered back as the salesperson, a youngish bloke wearing a pair of trendy frames, began to show them a few pairs he thought suited Harry’s face. He was trying to concentrate on what the man was saying but Malfoy was standing very close.

“I know a lot of things about Muggles, Potter,” whispered Malfoy smugly. His breath smelled like mint and coffee.

“And these,” said the salesperson, holding out a pair of thin wire frames. “These are an example of the transition lenses I was telling you about. They’re great if you don’t want to buy a second pair of sunglasses. It works almost like magic.” 

“Indeed,” said Malfoy, exchanging a glance with Harry, who smiled back at the inside joke. 

“They’re . . . cool,” said Harry, holding the frames. He already missed his old faithful pair. Malfoy brushed against his side as he moved to look at another rack of glasses. 

“What does your partner think?” said the sales bloke, looking to Malfoy.

Malfoy just smiled before Harry could correct him. “I think they’ll do nicely.” 

By the time they had purchased the frames, explaining to the confused salesperson they didn’t need prescription lenses, they were already late for Harry’s appointment with Zabini. They Flooed back to Grimmauld, and Harry stepped out into a living room he hardly recognised. It was stripped nearly bare, the carpets removed, the paintings gone, the furniture covered with some sort of protective spell while paint brushes danced and weaved overhead. Zacharias seemed deep in concentration. “Better leave him to it,” said Malfoy, veering Harry into the kitchen before he could ask about his missing paperwork. 

Once there, Malfoy swiftly abandoned him, leaving him with Blaise Zabini, who stood at the range with his wand in one hand, stirring spoon in the other. The kitchen itself hadn’t yet been touched by Zacharias’s remodelling frenzy; it was just as dark, dreary and old-fashioned as Harry remembered. It had never bothered him before, but he suddenly found himself thinking about what could be improved. 

“Potter,” said Zabini. “Part of my job is to figure out a weekly meal plan for you. Given your busy schedule, I thought we could start with a few dishes that can be cooked ahead and then reheated. Oh, and I recharmed the basement larder with the latest spells so you should never run out of the items you use most. These old wizarding houses are entirely self-contained, though it doesn’t seem like Kreacher kept up-to-date with the supply spells. There were plenty of onions and potatoes down there. Not much else. This way, you’ll be able to cook for yourself instead of always ordering takeaway.” 

Harry nodded. He’d never really questioned how Kreacher took care of the shopping and cooking, and the old elf hadn’t been very forthcoming because any questions about running the house would lead to Kreacher muttering about Master being ungrateful and displeased. Harry had kept his mouth shut to stop him from bashing his head against the nearest wall. “I hope there’s plenty of whisky down there,” he muttered. He had a feeling he was going to need it after this. 

“Ogden’s finest.” Blaise gave him an easy grin, and Harry felt his shoulders relax. “You look great, by the way. Love the new trousers.” 

Harry didn’t let the compliment go to his head this time. He shrugged. “It wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be.”

“Draco will be so pleased to hear that,” said Blaise dryly. “So, back to the menu. I assume you’re a fan of meat and veg?” 

Harry nodded. 

“Then you’ll love this red wine beef stew I’m preparing.” Zabini went on, outlining the ingredients and the process as Harry watched, wondering if he should admit to Zabini he wasn’t a complete idiot in the kitchen. While he knew Zabini was trying to be helpful, he was talking to Harry like he was a child, and a slow one at that, and it was starting to grate on Harry’s nerves. 

“Listen,” Harry said as Zabini demonstrated the proper charms for cutting onions. “I don’t know what my friends told you, but I do know how to cook. Loads of things, actually.” 

“You do?” Zabini’s eyebrows travelled up his forehead. “Well I feel like a right tit, then. You just don’t have the time, or is it the inclination?” 

The perfectly diced pieces of onion sizzled in the pan with garlic, carrots, and celery, filling the air with a delicious aroma. Instead of answering, Harry moved to the stove and picked up a wooden spoon. It had been months since he’d cooked a proper meal for himself. He wondered how much he should admit to Zabini. He took a deep breath. 

“I’m not a fan of cooking. As a child, I used to have to do it for the family I lived with. The Dursleys.” 

“The Muggles.” 

Harry nodded. His history wasn’t exactly a secret, not after three unauthorized biographies and countless _Prophet_ articles. “And they weren’t exactly kind about it, either. I rarely got to eat what I cooked. I was hungry a lot.” He remembered one morning, he’d been instructed to make a special brekkie for his uncle’s birthday. The eggs hadn’t been done to his liking, and the plate had wound up on the Floor, egg yolk running into the strands of the carpet. Of course Harry had to clean that up as well, salivating and furious at the wasted food. 

“I see.” Zabini ran a hand through his closely shorn hair, and Harry wondered that he’d finally rendered a Slytherin speechless. 

“I guess that’s why I rely so much on takeaway. Plus, yes, I’m too busy to cook most days. I work twelve hours, and by the time I get home, I just want to watch telly and drink a beer.” 

“That’s understandable,” said Zabini. He seemed to be at a loss. 

“I do want to eat better, though.” Harry stirred the mirepoix again. Just admitting his aversion to cooking, and why, made his chest feel a little lighter. It wasn’t so bad to be stood by the stove with the smells and sounds of good food surrounding him, as long as he kept the bad memories at bay. They didn’t speak for a while as Zabini added the rest of the ingredients to the stew pot. 

“Draco couldn’t fly for a while.” He opened a bottle of wine with a flick of his wand and Summoned two glasses. After glugging a bit into the stew, he offered Harry a glass. “He’ll kill me for telling you this, but after the Fiendfyre, and for years after the war, he wouldn’t touch his broom, even for Quidditch.” 

Harry nodded. They all had scars from the war, some less visible than others. His stomach lurched a little remembering that day, the feel of Malfoy against his back, his sweaty hands desperately gripping Harry’s waist. “And now?” 

“He does fly. I don’t know if he will ever love it the same way, though.” 

“Is this your version of a pep talk--don’t give up on things just because you had a bad experience?” Harry took a sip of his wine. 

Zabini gave him half a smirk. “Maybe. Is it working?” 

“It’s a bit shit.” 

“Thought as much.” Zabini held out his glass, and Harry tipped them together. “The stew will be good, though.” 

“You’re also right,” Harry said, a bit surprised at himself. “I shouldn’t eat like crap just because my aunt and uncle were twats.” 

“So, what are you saying?” 

“I’m saying . . . I guess I wouldn’t mind learning some new recipes, if you have the time.” 

“We have five more days, and tomorrow we’ll choose a menu for your big reveal party.”

“What party?” Harry’s eyebrows shot up. 

“Oh, Draco didn’t tell you?” 

A throat cleared in the doorway, and Harry turned to see Malfoy standing with his arms crossed, his eyes moving from Harry to Zabini. “Progress?” 

Harry wondered how much Malfoy had heard, whether he knew Zabini had told Harry about the flying. There was something quietly tragic about it, and Harry’s chest twinged. Malfoy had loved to fly, loved Quidditch as much as Harry did in school. Some of his most visceral memories from that time were of their teams competing, looping and diving with Malfoy after the Snitch. Even though they’d been enemies, in those moments, Harry had felt truly alive. 

“I think so,” said Zabini with a nod at the pot on the stove. “We’re finishing up for today.” 

“No fires to put out?” Malfoy sauntered into the kitchen, his eyes on Harry. There was something almost warm in the expression. 

Still, Harry wasn’t about to let himself get sidetracked. “What the hell is this about a party?” he demanded. 

“All of our clients host a small get-together at the end of the week to show their friends their new look. It can be as large or small as you wish.” 

Harry groaned, and Zabini poured him another glass of wine. “And if I don’t do it?” 

“The world will end, obviously.” Malfoy leaned forward and took a sniff of the stew, making an approving noise. A strand of hair fell over his forehead, and Harry’s immediate impulse was to reach out and brush it back. He clenched his hands to his sides, wondering not for the first time what had come over him. 

Not long after, Malfoy and Zabini left, instructing Harry to relax for the rest of the evening, which was easier said than done, especially with the house in more disarray than usual. When he went upstairs, his attention was drawn to a flickering light coming from the bathroom. His tub was filled to the brim with soapy, warm water, and a few candles placed around the room gave it a soft glow. A note from Malfoy was spelled to the door. 

_Enjoy yourself_ , it said simply.

At first, Harry considered crumpling up the note and draining the bath, but the water steamed invitingly, and Harry gave in, disrobed, and slipped in with a groan. He leaned back, arms bracketing the sides of the old tub, and let his head rest as the warm water started to work its magic on his muscles. It had been years since he’d taken a bubble bath, and he’d never done so alone. It was nice to be alone now, letting his body sink into deep relaxation without any worries about work the next day. His thoughts drifted lazily to Malfoy and their afternoon together. In spite of himself, he’d enjoyed it, enjoyed being with Malfoy. He thought about the causal touches, the way Malfoy had held his hand as they Apparated, his soft breath huffing against Harry’s ear. 

Before Harry knew it, he was palming his erection, feeling the weight and heft of it in the water. He rarely had the time for a leisurely wank these days, and he went slowly now, moving his hand up and down over his length. He wondered if Malfoy knew what Harry would do once he was in the bath, and he imagined what would happen if Malfoy walked in right now. Would he stand and watch, enjoying the view like Harry had that night at the party? Because he couldn’t deny now that mingled with the anger and discomfort he’d experienced, he’d been aroused by the sight of Malfoy getting wanked off. Maybe he’d even wished it was him, and not the stupid bloody Chaser, doing the deed. That thought was enough to push him over the edge. He came, pulsing into the water while his fist moved with familiar, sure strokes.

His climax, however, instead of relaxing him further, cleared his head for other worries--the mounds of paperwork that had disappeared somewhere in the house, the party he was supposed to throw for his friends. Then there were the open cases he’d left at work. They were gathering evidence in a potions ring case: the perpetrators were breaking the Statute of Secrecy and dealing with Muggles. Of course there also was the unexplained Gringott’s vault robbery. He wondered how Goldstein would handle it all without him.

His fingers itched, and his mind raced as he went downstairs to eat dinner by himself. Then, realising he’d missed his weekly lunch at Andromeda’s, he Floo-called his godson to make sure all was well. Teddy greeted him excitedly and launched into a story about his preparations for the upcoming school year, asking Harry all sorts of questions about the train to Hogwarts, the Sorting Hat, the dormitories, his hair changing color from blue to pink to red with his enthusiasm even though they’d been through it all before. By the time they ended the call, Harry was finally ready to fall into a deep, dreamless sleep.

***

The next couple of days were more of the same, with Harry dividing his time between Malfoy and the two Z’s, each of whom seemed so different from how they’d been at Hogwarts. Zabini was confident and attractive, but he balanced his charm with a certain drollness that Harry appreciated. Zacharias was a flirt, though very serious about his work. Malfoy was . . . Malfoy was complicated.

It was impossible to pretend their history didn’t exist, but schoolboy Malfoy was light-years away from the competent, self-assured man he’d become. He was still prickly, but his insults were funnier and less mean-spirited than Harry remembered. There was even something compassionate about the way he respected Harry’s resistance to change. And there was an undeniable energy between them that made Harry’s pulse quicken whenever they were in the room together. He looked forward to spending time with Malfoy in spite of the voice in his head that warned Malfoy was only here to do a job, that he had no interest in Harry beyond the professional. With the way he sometimes caught Malfoy staring at him, though, he wasn’t even sure that was true.

The house was still a ‘work in progress,’ and on the fifth day, Harry was ordered to leave so that Zacharias could tackle the upstairs rooms, including Harry’s bedroom. In order to keep him occupied, he and Malfoy would do an activity of Harry’s choosing. It was pretty obviously meant to get him to reconnect with his favorite pastimes so he could see how much he missed by working so much. Harry had a slightly different idea, however.

Malfoy arrived early that morning before the others, using the front door rather than the Floo. He looked dashing but more informal than Harry had yet seen him in a pair of dark jeans and a fitted green jumper which showed off his sleek musculature and sharp collarbones. Harry had chosen jeans and one of his new shirts, a ‘henley’ Malfoy had called it, in a reddish-purple color. Not quite Gryffindor vs. Slytherin, but close. 

They stood on the threshold facing one another, and Harry wondered if he should invite Malfoy in for tea or coffee. He resisted running his hand through his hair. He had used the potion, slightly more confident he’d gotten the styling right. For some reason, this meeting felt different than the other days. They were going somewhere together which wasn’t strictly related to Malfoy’s job, and Harry had put an effort into his appearance. It was almost like a date, but that was absurd. 

“Where are we off to, Potter?” Malfoy asked, shifting from one foot to the other. 

From his jeans pocket, Harry produced a small golden Snitch. “I thought we could go flying.” Malfoy worked hard not to visibly react, but Harry could tell the effort was costing him. “Is that a problem?” 

“Of course not,” said Malfoy, adopting an easy smile. “My pitch or yours?” 

“Well, the closest park to here is Muggle. I do have an idea, but we’ll have to Apparate. Come on.” Harry pushed past Malfoy and shut the door behind him. Grimmauld Place shimmered in the air and then disappeared between the surrounding Muggle houses. The glamours and protective spells never failed to amaze Harry, though he’d lived in the place for nearly ten years. 

The late summer morning was unseasonably warm, and they walked together in silence to the closest alleyway, their arms brushing against one another on the odd stride. Harry snuck a glimpse at Malfoy’s profile and saw the faint sheen of sweat at his hairline. It was hard to tell what he was thinking, but Harry suspected Malfoy was nervous. He hoped this didn’t turn out to be a mistake.

“You didn’t say anything about my hair,” said Harry, a slight tease in his voice. “You didn’t try to fix it, either, so I must be learning.” 

“Potter, I confess myself utterly stunned at your ability to follow simple directions.” 

“Prat.” 

“Tosser.” 

They turned into a small recessed alleyway filled with overflowing trash bins. A stray cat who had been perched on the top of one arched its back, hissed, and ran off, kicking off the top of the bin as it went. Malfoy sniffed and wrinkled his nose. “Where in Salazar’s name are you taking me?” 

Harry couldn’t hold back his grin. “Just wait. Hold on to my arm.” He had Floo-called Ginny the previous night about the use of the Harpies practice pitch out in Devon; she’d been on the team for seven years and captain for two. She had given her blessings and let him know the new coordinates and revealing charm, but of course she was also full of questions about why he wanted to use it in the first place. He admitted he was going flying with Malfoy, and she had nearly fallen into the fire with glee. Hermione and Ron, who’d been visiting Ginny during the call, had more subdued reactions, but he could tell they still thought something was going on. Of course they were all bonkers, but it was their fault the ‘almost like a date’ thought had wormed its way into Harry’s head. He was glad he’d have someone to blame when this all went tits up. 

Instead of holding Harry’s forearm, Malfoy gripped his bicep, just above the crook of his elbow. Harry stepped closer so that they were almost chest-to-chest, Malfoy’s slightly taller frame backed against the bricks. If the stench of acrid bins wasn’t so overwhelming, it might have been romantic. 

“Hang on,” said Harry, and then they were twisting through time and space, lungs and bodies squeezed to the brink of endurance, and deposited on a high, grassy hillside dotted with wildflowers. 

Malfoy took a deep breath and appeared to be regaining his composure as he looked down into the valley below. Hundreds of acres of green farmland, a picturesque town at the centre, made up the pleasant landscape, and Harry wondered at the closeness of the wizarding and Muggle worlds; that they could be so near to each other and yet so entirely separate. It had always been strange to him that pureblood wizards seldom interacted with Muggles or even knew about their lives and inventions, Malfoy included. And that the Muggles themselves had no idea that just a mile above their town, some of the best Quidditch players in the world honed their skills. 

“What do you think?” Harry asked. 

“I think it’s . . . it’s lovely up here. But you forgot one thing.” 

“Hmm?” Harry was distracted by the way the warm breeze mussed Malfoy’s perfect hair. 

“We don’t have any brooms.” 

Harry shook his head and aimed his wand in the direction of the willow tree Ginny had mentioned. “ _Revelio totalio_.” 

Suddenly, the field at the top of the hill transformed, Quidditch goal posts suddenly visible in the air above. At the same time, a hidden door in the tree trunk swung open. Inside was a brightly lit room filled with gear, everything emblazoned with the Harpies logo, and twenty of the latest Firebolts, the Firebreather. Malfoy followed Harry inside with a small gasp of amazement, turning around and around. 

“This is the Harpies practice pitch,” said Malfoy as Harry grabbed two of the brooms and tossed one in his direction. Malfoy caught it, his eyes wide, something like reverence in them. “A Firebreather. These aren’t even available to the wizarding public yet.” 

“Indeed. So don’t break it, or Ginny will have kittens.” 

“You expect me to fly on one of these?” 

Harry shrugged. “Why not?” He met Malfoy’s gaze, his heart picking up speed. He didn’t want to pressure Malfoy, but from the eager look in his eyes, Harry had a feeling Malfoy truly wanted to fly. Maybe he just needed a little encouragement. 

“I know Blaise told you,” Malfoy said, surprising Harry. “About how I couldn’t fly. . . not for a long time. I used to have dreams I was trapped inside the room with no way to get out . . . they’re better now.” 

“I’m sorry,” said Harry. “I used to dream about that too.” 

“You did?” Malfoy seemed surprised. 

“Among other things. We all lost a lot in the war.” He hesitated, wondering how to go on. “But out here, you’re safe. There are cushioning charms all along the pitch, and no one is watching.” 

“Except you,” Malfoy said softly. 

Harry wondered if he was imagining the slight flush on Malfoy’s cheeks. It was terribly attractive. “If you don’t want to, you don’t have to. I just thought you might like to try. We don’t have to chase the Snitch or anything. We can just do a few loops around. I don’t mind.” 

Malfoy’s gaze hardened, his lips thinning out. “Oh, we’ll chase the Snitch, Potter. I just hope you’re prepared for a fight.” 

“Always am,” Harry said with a smile. 

Back out in the sunlight, Harry mounted his broom and kicked off, the speed instantaneous. The Firebreather was far more sensitive to subtle body movements than any other broom on the market, and Harry had been dying to try one after hearing so much about it from Ginny. Her team had a deal with the manufacturer to publicize the broom before it hit the shelves, but it was clearly all it was claimed to be and more. Harry zoomed up, wind whipping through his hair as he climbed fifty, a hundred, two hundred feet in mere seconds and then circled back, turning with a slight lean towards Malfoy, who was close behind him. He nodded and they stopped in an instant, both bobbing in midair as Harry reached in his pocket again for the Snitch.

The tiny gold ball fluttered for a moment and then darted to the left, a blur in Harry’s peripheral vision. With a whoop, Malfoy shot after it, his body crouched low to maximize the aerodynamics of the broom. For someone who had been afraid of flying until recently, Malfoy had the skill and speed of a seasoned player. Once Quidditch was in your blood it never left you, Harry supposed. Not wanting to waste another second lest Malfoy think Harry was giving away the advantage, Harry took off at full speed after him.

Adrenaline coursed through Harry’s veins, heart pounding in his ears as he gave chase. Up high, the wind was rougher, and it buffeted against their bodies as they criss-crossed paths, each one vying for the lead. The Snitch glinted in the sun, a teasing beacon, and it wasn’t long before Harry was sweating, his entire body alive with the joy of flying. Time seemed to stand still as they wove and darted and pressed for the advantage. Harry stopped thinking, his body only reacting to Malfoy and the changing, erratic pattern of the Snitch’s flight. His mind was gloriously clear, his vision sharp. He felt like a hawk or an eagle in flight, and Malfoy was a blur of color against a bright blue sky.

It went on forever, or maybe just for seconds. Malfoy, who was ahead, gave Harry a glimpse of an almost feral smile as he reached out, swooping to the right with a graceful arc and catching the Snitch in his left hand. He let out a cry of victory and held up the fluttering golden ball, his broom slowing down as he circled Harry, who was having too much fun to be upset he’d lost. 

Malfoy’s face radiated joy, his hair glinting brilliantly in the sun. Harry’s heart stuttered in spite of chalking up a point to Slytherin.

“Well done,” said Harry as they came together, still high above the ground. He didn’t ever want to land. He hoped Malfoy would want to go again.

“You put in a good effort, Potter,” said Malfoy, his breathing heavy. “But never bet against a man who has something to prove.” 

“You don’t have to prove anything to me,” Harry said.

“Don’t I, though?” Malfoy’s smile faltered. His eyes flickered with emotions too varied for Harry to follow or name, but he thought he might understand. 

“That’s all in the past now.” 

“Thank you, but you know that’s not true. Not for either of us.” Malfoy sighed, his broom swaying gently in the breeze. With a determined look, he pulled up his sleeves, revealing what Harry knew would be there, an ugly mark on otherwise flawless skin. Harry took a deep breath and waited, sensing Malfoy wanted to go on. “Trying to pretend like it didn’t happen was never going to work. I’ve had to learn to forgive myself.” He stared down at the Mark, blinking rapidly. 

“Have you?” 

“On the better days.” He smiled a little, the edge of his mouth turning up, and the raw honesty in his voice made Harry’s stomach clench. What Malfoy was saying made a lot of sense. 

“I guess that’s one of the reasons why I work so much. It’s easier to stay busy. When I’m working I don’t have to think about how they’re gone, and I’m still here.” Harry hadn’t ever said it out loud before. The weight of the words seemed to anchor him to the ground, and he felt heavier, his broom suddenly dipping. He quickly bobbed back so they were once again at eye level. “And it gives me some sense of control. If I’m not there and things go wrong . . .” He lived in constant fear someone else he loved would be taken too soon; it probably showed on his face, from the way Malfoy was looking at him. He’d never even shared these thoughts with his closest friends. 

“You feel guilty because people you loved died. It’s called survivor’s guilt, Potter, and it’s completely normal. Understandable, given the situation.” 

Harry furrowed his brow. He had heard the term himself, of course, but he was surprised again by Malfoy’s awareness of Muggle terminology. But then most things Malfoy did these days were perplexing.

“But not even you can control everything, not even if you worked all day every day for the rest of your life.” Malfoy flew closer, so that their thighs bumped together.

Harry nodded and swallowed down the lump in his throat that rose whenever he thought of them: Fred and Remus and Sirius and Tonks. The countless others who had died too soon. “You sound pretty together,” said Harry, his voice sounding raw in his own ears. 

“I see a Mind Healer,” Malfoy explained. “It’s helped.” The wind swept his hair in an unruly pattern, and a small flock of sparrows twittered by. Harry watched them, unable to meet Malfoy’s eyes. “It’s not your fault, you know, that they died. You don’t have to keep punishing yourself.” 

Harry’s eyes burned. He wanted to believe this conversation between them was real, that it wasn’t simply what Malfoy had planned as part of Harry’s supposed ‘self-actualisation’ or whatever he wanted to call it. “I know that. But knowing and believing are two different things.” 

“Indeed.” 

“Let’s fly a little more.” 

“All right.” Malfoy held up the Snitch and then let it go. It was the best afternoon Harry had spent in a very, very long time.

***

Harry couldn’t deny that Grimmauld Place looked much improved. As he walked from room to room, led by an excited Zacharias with Malfoy and Zabini trailing after, he was struck again and again by the seamless mix of old and new. Some of the antique furniture remained, polished to a shine, but it was combined with luxurious new details and accents: a mahogany leather sectional sofa in the sitting room, a glass-top dining room table with wrought iron legs. A fresh coat of paint made each room look brighter, and there wasn’t a pile of papers to be seen. The clutter had been entirely removed, boxed up and put in the attic for Harry to deal with at a later time, or Vanish if he should see fit.

In the kitchen, the old wizarding range had been replaced with a sleek, Muggle-inspired version. The worktops were all new, and Zacharias had charmed the ceiling with the illusion of a sun roof, letting light and air inside the previously dark and dingy space. 

“You’re young, but the house was designed and styled for an ancient wizarding family,” said Zacharias, sweeping his arms around. He was obviously pleased with himself. “You were almost afraid, I think, to make it your own. I know you don’t have a lot of free time, so I wanted to ensure everything was organized, functional, and easy to use. What do you think?” He gestured to the rack of hanging pots and pans, charmed to size themselves for whatever dish and amount the user was preparing. 

Malfoy stood close by, watching Harry’s face intently. 

“I guess it . . . feels more like a home,” said Harry, slightly amazed. “It feels more like me.” 

Zacharias smiled. “Well, I would say it was all us, but we did get some inspiration from your friends. Shall we continue the tour?”

Most of the family portraits had been moved to the upstairs hall, flanking either side of it like an art gallery, all except for Aunt Walburga, who’d been relegated to the attic. The bathroom had been fitted with a new shower, sink and toilet, and one of the spare bedrooms had been converted into a practical and cosy office space. All of his parchment had been organised into self-sorting files, which Zabini displayed with a flick of his wand. 

“One can only imagine how you got anything done before,” said Malfoy. “Now, you’ll be able to work without getting food and coffee stains on everything.”

“Give me some credit,” said Harry. “I can spill my coffee pretty much anywhere.” 

Harry’s room was cleared of clutter, his king-sized bed outfitted with a new duvet and pillows. The wide expanse of soft white down was the focal point, and Harry couldn’t help it if his thoughts immediately drifted to what Malfoy might look like spread out across it, mussing up the sheets. His face flushed, a reaction he hoped the others would attribute to the warmth of the room and the fact they’d spent the afternoon flying. 

“Now, if you do have any gentleman callers, you won’t have to worry about them tripping over your old shoes.” Zacharias elbowed Harry in the side, and Malfoy rolled his eyes. 

“Er, thanks,” said Harry. He shifted from one foot to the other, slightly embarrassed at the previous state of the room. Seeing it now, so inviting and orderly, made him realise how bad it had become. He hadn’t been able to truly recognise the state of things until he was shaken out of his comfort zone. And it was all because of these former enemies. Because of Malfoy. “Thank you for everything,” he added. “Really, I don’t know what to say.” 

“Say you’ll put it to good use,” said Zacharias with a wink. “And don’t forget to give us all the juicy details!” 

Malfoy muttered something under his breath, but Harry couldn’t quite make out the words. He looked annoyed, though. 

“Honestly, Smith,” said Zabini with sigh. 

“Oh, Merlin, lighten up! Pull the sticks out of your arses. Harry is a grown man who can take a joke or two about shagging.”

Harry smiled. “I can even take three or four.” As soon as he’d said it, he realised how it sounded. Everyone laughed, but Malfoy’s face went more than a little red and he wouldn’t meet Harry’s eyes. It wasn’t like him to be so easily embarrassed. It made Harry wonder.

***

On the day before the party, Harry didn’t see Malfoy. He spent most of the time with Zabini in the kitchen learning the ins and outs of the new charms that were designed to help him maximize his time and minimize his feelings of discomfort about cooking. If someone had told Harry a month before that he’d actually enjoy making a meal with Blaise Zabini of all people, he would’ve had them committed to St. Mungo’s. But here he was, stirring a pot of bubbling spag bol with Zabini and not wanting to hex him. It was odd, to say the least, but not unpleasant.

He did find himself looking towards the Floo whenever he passed it, wondering if Malfoy would appear. Or was his part in this whole thing now over, and Harry wouldn’t see him until another chance meeting at Pansy’s or a run in at the Leaky? He had to accept the fact that Malfoy was here to work, and whatever fun they might have had flying or talking was simply part of that job. 

The thought left him strangely empty, like something in his life was missing. Something he hadn’t even known he wanted.

Back in the kitchen, Zabini had opened a bottle of red wine and was spelling a set of new dishes out of the cabinet. The warm, comforting smell of pasta and sauce filled the air. Meanwhile, on the new worktop, a block of parmesan cheese was grating itself onto a fresh rocket salad. Harry’s mouth watered. In spite of all the cooking for the party they’d done, he hadn’t eaten a proper meal all day.

“Are you staying for dinner?” Harry asked, not really minding. He wasn’t looking forward to Zabini leaving him alone to eat and think about the week ahead. He’d be going back to the Ministry soon, and he dreaded facing the volume of paperwork that had surely amassed in his absence. 

“Actually, no, I’ve got to run. I have a date.” Zabini gave him a sly half-smile. 

Harry started at the two plates. “This is way too much for just me.” 

“I know,” said Zabini, gesturing behind Harry. 

“Sorry I’m so late,” said a distinctive voice. “I got caught up with another client. Utterly hopeless.”

Harry’s stomach flipped as he turned to see Malfoy standing in the doorway, a smudge of Floo Powder on the side of his cheek, hair slightly messy, as though he’d been in a hurry. He wore a purple jumper, one of the soft ones Harry liked, and a pair of dark denims, and he looked more touchable than Harry had ever seen him before. He had the urge to reach out and wipe the powder off with the pad of his thumb, but he restrained himself. Barely. 

“Hi,” Harry said. 

“Anyway, you’re just in time,” said Zabini. “Dinner is finished, and it’s quite delicious, if I do say so myself. I’ve got to dash, but I’m sure the two of you can finish up in here.”

Malfoy’s eyes darted from Harry to Zabini. “What? You’re leaving?” 

“Yes, old man. Sorry, but I can’t keep Monty waiting.” 

“Monty Wellsbourne is an utter cad,” said Malfoy, sniffing. “He’ll break your heart.” 

Zabini arched an eyebrow. “Not if I break his first. Oh, and this came earlier.” He held out a piece of paper to Malfoy, who took the Owl and folded it neatly into his pocket without bothering to read it. Harry supposed he should have a snappy retort for Malfoy having his mail delivered to Harry’s address, but he wasn’t really angry about it. In fact, it sort of pleased him, in a strange, not to be examined too closely way.

With that, Zabini thumped Harry on the back and left the kitchen, but not before exchanging a few additional hushed words with Malfoy, who looked flustered. Once Zabini was gone, he turned to Harry with a small, apologetic smile. 

“It seems as though we’ve been set up.” 

“It does,” Harry agreed. He bit his bottom lip and considered the situation. The spaghetti had plated itself and, thanks to Zabini’s stasis and warming charms, would keep until they were ready to eat. Two glasses of red wine were set out on the counter, and Harry picked one up and took a fortifying sip. He was surprised when Malfoy did the same. 

“I thought you didn’t drink?” 

“I don’t. Mostly. But the Muggles say that red wine has antitoxities that are good for you.” 

Harry hid his smile behind his hand. “I think you mean antioxidants.” Gryffindor, point.

“That’s what I said, Potter.” Malfoy took another—rather large—sip, holding the wine glass with three of his long, slender fingers. He looked utterly charming stood there in Harry’s kitchen, the warm lights overhead making his blond hair shimmer. 

Harry decided to let it go. “Well, are you hungry? Shall we?” 

Malfoy nodded, and with a snap of his fingers Harry sent the plates whizzing out the door towards the dining room table. Malfoy’s eyes widened like they always did whenever Harry performed wandless magic. He knew he was being slightly gratuitous, but he sent the salad, wine bottle and utensils flying after anyway. 

On his way out, Zabini had dimmed the lights in the dining room and lit candles that hovered above the table like they had at Hogwarts, giving the room a cosy, extremely date-like feel. To make matters worse, soft Muggle jazz music played, a tune Harry remembered Aunt Petunia playing during his childhood. “ _It had to be you. It had to be youuuuuu_. . .” Harry’s heart stuttered nervously. He didn’t want to give Malfoy the idea that he’d intended this, but he also didn’t want to give him the idea he hadn’t. If that made any sense. 

“I’m going to murder Blaise,” said Malfoy, half under his breath. 

Harry bristled. “Oh, is it really so bad to be having dinner here with me?” 

“No, no. Of course not. It’s just—” Malfoy took another strong sip of wine. 

“ _I wandered around, and finally found the somebody whoooooooo_ . . .”

Simultaneously, two chairs pushed themselves out from the table, as though the house itself wanted them to sit down and enjoy. Malfoy slipped into one, still clutching his wine. Harry followed his lead warily. He wasn’t sure why Malfoy was acting this way, like he couldn’t bear the idea of being alone with Harry. Unless of course the reason was he couldn’t bear to be alone with Harry. But, even as the thought struck him and left him cold, he knew it wasn’t true. Malfoy had enjoyed their time together, even if it had been for work. Harry couldn’t have imagined the moment they shared on the Quidditch pitch.

“ _Some others I've seen, might never be mean, might never be cross, or try to be boss, but they wouldn't do_. . .” 

The lights went even softer, and Harry rolled his eyes. If the house was trying to encourage the romantic atmosphere, it was wasting its time. Malfoy looked like he was ready to bolt at any moment. 

After another beat, Malfoy seemed to collect himself. “This looks delicious.” 

Harry picked up his fork and twirled a bit of spaghetti, though he’d lost his appetite. “I can’t take the credit. It was mainly Zabini.” 

“You don’t give yourself enough credit,” said Malfoy. He picked up his fork and took a taste of his food, a pleased smile on his lips. “And I give myself entirely too much.” He washed down the bite with more wine, and Harry wondered about his tolerance. His cheeks had already gone a bit pink, which was visible even in the dimly lit room.

“You always say I have a big head.” 

“Well, I am not above admitting that perhaps I’ve been wrong about you. Slightly.” 

“I’m not above admitting the same.” Harry smiled. “You’re really talented at this, Malfoy.” 

“I am?” The words sounded surprised and a little hopeful. It was almost as though, in spite of what Malfoy had just said about giving himself credit, he really didn’t feel that way inside where it counted. 

Harry swept his hand around. “Look at this place. It’s transformed. And it’s all thanks to you. I mean, I know the others helped, but it was your leadership that made it happen.” 

Malfoy looked—for once—to be at a loss for words. “Thank you, Potter,” he finally said. “You were . . . much more amenable than I thought you would be at the beginning. I thought you would throw us out on the second day.” 

“I nearly did. I would have if not for the contract.” 

Malfoy snorted. “Oh, that. Yes, well, you very easily could have had it voided. Magical agreements are non-binding if they’re not signed. Certainly you knew that working at the Ministry?” He raised an eyebrow, and Harry felt a right tit. 

“Of course. Well, it wasn’t as bad as I expected it would be. I like my haircut.” He offered what he hoped was a dashing grin, and it had the desired effect. Malfoy’s eyes drifted to his lips, and he quickly reached for his glass of wine. “I liked all of it, well, except the part where you threw out all of my clothes. My Hogwarts jumper.” 

“Three sizes too small. You’ve . . . grown a lot.” 

Harry patted his belly and set his fork down. “Maybe too much.” 

“No,” Malfoy said quickly. “Not too much.” 

Harry filed that one away with a bit of satisfaction. He decided to press on. “It’s been . . . relaxing, actually, being off. I almost don’t want to go back to work.” 

“Salazar, are my ears deceiving me or is the great Harry Potter admitting he might perhaps work too much.” 

“I suppose I could use a break, once in a while. Now that I have a space I feel more comfortable in, that feels more like me. I think I could take better care of it.” 

Malfoy seemed pleased. “I hope you do. You’ve been a good client, Potter.” 

Another awkward silence descended as Harry weighed his next move. He supposed he should take the safe route, not say anything, perhaps finish dinner quickly and thank Malfoy for his time, but Harry had never really fancied the safe route. In for a penny and all that. 

“Client? Is that all?” 

Malfoy paused with his glass nearly touching his lips, which were parted, stained darker with wine. He had already finished his first glass and started on a second. “What are you asking, exactly?” 

Harry’s heart sped up. He felt emboldened by the wine, the soft music, the way that Malfoy looked at him with lowered lashes. It was certainly not the sort of look you would give someone you thought of as a client and nothing else. “I may be mad, but is it possible you might want to be . . . more?” 

Malfoy’s eyes were heated, slightly glassy. He looked once again at Harry’s lips. “I don’t date clients. It’s not professional.” He sounded like he was trying to convince himself, rather than Harry. 

Harry wasn’t above pressing his advantage. “But after tomorrow, I won’t be your client any more.” 

“That’s true.” 

“Listen, you don’t need to say anything now, but I just wanted you to know that I’m interested. I’d like to take you on a real date, if you want. I don’t think this really counts.” Harry realised he was rambling on, and he caught himself before he said anything stupid. Stupider. Malfoy was looking at him like he hardly believed what he was hearing.

“And you don’t care. That people will talk? Or about this.” Malfoy pulled up his sleeve, revealing the edges of the Mark. Once, it would have made Harry feel slightly ill—and very angry. He still didn’t like that it was there, of course, but he didn’t have a visceral reaction. Maybe he’d seen too many in his time as an Auror, or maybe it was just that Malfoy had changed so much from the young, angry boy he’d been. His shoulders were set firm, his arm thrust out for Harry to inspect, chest rising and falling with measured breaths. Only the slight furrow in his brow, the hesitance in his eyes, showed how unsure he was. Whatever Harry said now would determine the course of the future between them.

Harry took his napkin from his lap and placed it next to his glass on the table. “No. I don’t,” he said simply.

“You never fail to surprise me, Potter, just when I think I have you figured out.” Malfoy withdrew his arm. His smile was soft and a bit rueful.

Harry felt his face warm. “I hope that’s a good thing.”

“Indeed it is.” 

They looked at one another. With the candlelight flickering above casting shadows and light on Malfoy’s face, he was a beautiful enigma Harry couldn’t quite puzzle out. He was interested. Harry could tell from his expression, from the way he kept glancing at Harry’s lips, his body, drinking him in as though Harry might disappear if he blinked. His pupils were large, his breath coming more quickly. He was aroused, Harry realised, almost breathless himself. The tension coiled between them like a snake ready to strike.

Harry’s cock started to firm in his trousers, which were much tighter than the ones he was used to. It didn’t give him a lot of room to grow, and he surreptitiously adjusted himself under the table. Of course Malfoy’s eagle eyes caught the movement anyway. 

“Dear gods,” Malfoy said with a defeated groan. “I’m an utter wretch.” 

Harry had no idea what Malfoy was talking about—he only knew that two seconds later, Malfoy pushed himself up out of his chair and stalked towards him like a predatory cat. With a flick of his wand, Malfoy sent Harry’s chair skidding back from the table. Harry’s erection grew, thickening at the display of magic—and Malfoy stared down at his bulge as he kneeled between Harry’s spread thighs. 

“Look at you,” Malfoy murmured. He rubbed Harry’s thighs, widening them further and settling in closer, his hands drifting tantalizingly close to Harry’s prick with each pass. He leaned down and nuzzled Harry’s cock through his trousers, breathing warmly into the material, and it responded with an enthusiastic twitch.

Suddenly, Harry remembered Malfoy’s empty glass of wine. “Maybe we shouldn’t do this now. You’re not used to drinking.”

 

“I’m not drunk, Potter. Tipsy, definitely, but I’m in complete control of my faculties, and if you try to be noble I swear to Merlin I will hex you.” 

“That wouldn’t be very nice.” Harry dared to reach out and put one of his hands in Malfoy’s hair. The soft strands slipped through his fingers as he scratched Malfoy’s warm scalp. 

“Well, I’m not feeling very nice at the moment,” said Malfoy, arching into Harry’s touch. 

Harry decided he shouldn’t argue anymore, not when Malfoy was reaching for his zip, unbuttoning his jeans. He reached in and found Harry’s hard prick, bringing it forth through the material so that it stood out, proud and erect. Harry’s bollocks were still trapped in his pants, and the pressure felt good, especially when Malfoy wrapped his hand around Harry and gave him a firm, long stroke.

“Merlin, you’re big,” said Malfoy, licking his lips. “You look good enough to eat.” He spat into his palm, a surprisingly crude action that went straight to Harry’s cock, making it leak as he continued stroking up and down, circling over the head with every slow pass. Harry groaned and tightened his grip on Malfoy’s hair. He was dangerously close to pushing Malfoy’s head down into his lap. 

Malfoy teased the foreskin with his finger, his eyes bright and on Harry’s face, watching his reaction. Harry bit his bottom lip so hard he was afraid it might bleed. His cock was throbbing, so hard and ready though Malfoy had barely touched him yet.

“That night,” said Harry. “That night at the party, when I found you like this.” 

“Yes?”

“I almost got the feeling you wanted me to see.” 

Malfoy smirked, his hand growing bolder. “I didn’t intend it, but . . . I can’t deny it turned me on.” 

“You like to be watched, Malfoy?” Harry hissed as Malfoy pressed his thumb into Harry’s slit, sliding precome across the head. 

“Only when it’s you.” He pressed his lips to the tip of Harry’s cock, kissing it like it was something precious. Harry had no idea how he would last. “When’s the last time someone did this for you, Potter?” 

“It’s been a while,” Harry gritted through clenched teeth. And the last time had been an unsatisfactorily quick session at the back of a dirty Muggle club, but he wasn’t going to tell Malfoy that. 

“Good. I want to make it so good for you.” Malfoy squeezed him and leaned down, tongue tracing a circular motion around Harry’s foreskin, lapping it gently and taking the skin between his lips. Harry groaned, spreading his legs even wider. His balls drew up high and tight, and the tension between his freed cock and constricted bollocks was utterly erotic. He liked the way it looked, and he liked the way he looked in Malfoy’s hand even more.

Malfoy’s tongue was clever, his mouth so hot and wet. Harry’s hips twitched up the first time Malfoy took him deeper. His hand was still on the back of Malfoy’s head, and Malfoy pushed back into it, his eyes latched onto Harry’s in an invitation. Harry exerted a little pressure, and Malfoy grunted in approval, his eyes closing as he slid back down. 

Soon, they’d started a slow rhythm, Malfoy taking Harry deep into his throat as Harry encouraged him, gripping the arm of his chair with his free hand. Slick sounds and moans filled the air, a stark contrast to the quiet jazz and the soft lighting. Harry held himself back, letting Malfoy set the pace even though he could tell Malfoy liked it a bit rough from the way he responded whenever Harry pushed him down onto his prick. That thought was enough to make Harry’s toes curl with the possibilities. He’d always tended towards dominant in bed, but he’d never felt comfortable expressing that side of himself. He was always too cautious, too aware of his own power, too worried that the other person wouldn’t like what he liked. But Malfoy wasn’t afraid of letting his preferences be known, Harry was sure of that. 

After a few minutes of slow, luxurious sucking, Malfoy pulled off with glassy eyes and swollen mouth. Harry ran his thumb along the underside of Malfoy’s jaw and touched his lower lip, smearing the wetness there.

“I want you to fuck me,” said Malfoy. He had freed his own cock and lazily fisted himself as he spoke.

“All right,” said Harry, holding his own cock at the base. He was pretty close to coming, but if Malfoy wanted him, he had to oblige. “How do you want it?” 

Malfoy got to his feet, fisting his pretty pink cock. It was shorter than Harry’s and not as thick, but it suited him well. Harry certainly wouldn’t mind getting to know it a little better. “You just stay right there,” said Malfoy. He grabbed his wand from the table, and with a few quick motions, removed their bottoms. Harry liked the dirtiness of fucking partially clothed, and he wondered if Malfoy did too. He hoped that was the reason, at least, and not that Malfoy was still worried about Harry seeing his Mark.

Harry felt the magic of protection charms tingle over his skin, and then, with a little bit of rearranging and chair widening, Malfoy climbed into his lap, angled Harry just so, and sank down onto him without any preamble. He’d prepared himself liberally, and Harry groaned and clutched Malfoy’s slim, lightly haired thighs. His cock throbbed inside the sudden tight, wet heat of Malfoy’s body. It was almost overwhelming. 

“Wait,” Harry panted. “Don’t move.” 

“Gods, you feel so good,” Malfoy leaned down and whispered in his ear. His breath tickled the hair at the nape of Harry’s neck, making goose pimples stand up on his arms. His mouth was so close, and Harry realised they hadn’t even kissed yet. He rubbed his hands up Malfoy’s back and found his face again, bringing him closer. 

It was soft and sweet at first, their tongues gently touching and sliding against one another, the taste of wine and tomato sauce quickly dissolving into something more primal, more them. Harry’s whole body ached with need; Malfoy was consuming him, and he was surrounded by Malfoy, his scent and strength, his trembling muscles as he started to rise and fall on Harry’s cock. Harry couldn’t get enough. He was riding the edge, each movement of Malfoy’s hips urging him nearer to release. 

“I’m . . . I’m really close.” 

“Mmm,” said Malfoy, his voice thick with lust. “Not yet. Wait, do you trust me?” 

Harry nodded frantically, all the while counting backwards from a hundred in an effort not to embarrass himself. Somewhere in his feverish mind he realised that he really was starting to trust Malfoy, and he had no idea how it had happened. 

Malfoy scrambled for his wand, and then Harry felt the most amazing sensation, almost as though a hand were holding his cock right above his bollocks. It felt good, but his imminent orgasm receded, like he was wearing a Muggle cock ring.

“You won’t come now,” said Malfoy. “Not until I do. That’s how the spell works.” 

“Brilliant,” said Harry, barely able to speak. He grabbed Malfoy’s hips again and started to fuck up into him as Malfoy slammed down, their rhythm gaining speed. 

Malfoy nipped at his ear, whispering dirty things. “That’s right. Fuck me with that gorgeous, fat prick. I want to feel you inside me for a week.” 

Harry throbbed, driven to the edge again by Malfoy’s voice. He almost felt like he was coming, but Malfoy’s spell held him back. He was as hard as he’d ever been in his life, the sensation so pleasurable he almost felt drugged with lust. 

Malfoy pumped his own cock, his hand bumping against Harry’s belly with each upstroke. He was getting close, gasping and moaning with abandon. Harry liked seeing him like this, all undone and unbuttoned, his hair messy from Harry’s hands, his jumper rucked up just enough for Harry to see his cock thrust through his fist. He settled in Harry’s lap like he was born to be there. And even though Malfoy was taller by a couple inches, Harry was stronger. He didn’t have any trouble lifting Malfoy up and jostling him down onto his prick, going as deep as he could, grinding slow so Malfoy could feel it. When Malfoy’s eyes rolled back in his head, his neck long and his head tossed back, Harry knew he’d found the right spot. He kept it up, thrusting and grinding while Malfoy found his release.

“Fuck, that’s it. Gonna come. Fill me up. Please . . . Harry.” 

The last word was a whisper on Malfoy’s lips, and Harry’s cock was was clenched tight as Malfoy started to come. Warm spurts painted Harry’s belly, and Malfoy slumped closer, resting his head on Harry’s shoulder as he shuddered and writhed. Seconds later, Harry’s orgasm surprised him, triggered by Malfoy’s. Harry came deep inside of Malfoy’s body, wave after wave of pleasure rolling through him until he was utterly, completely spent. He was beyond speaking. It was the best sex he’d ever had, and it was with Draco Malfoy. Draco. 

They stayed like that, twined together and exhausted, until Harry’s cock softened and slipped out. A trail of wetness followed, and Draco grimaced, his face flushing. 

“Don’t tell Zacharias about the chair,” he said. “He’ll kill us both.” 

“Nothing a little Scourgify can’t fix,” Harry said, performing the charm with a snap of his fingers.

“More wandless.” 

“Does it bother you?” 

“To see a raw display of magical power so casually executed?” Draco rolled his eyes. “Yes, I absolutely hate it.” 

Harry grinned ear to ear. “Thought you might.” 

Draco nipped his shoulder, his hands coming to rest on Harry’s biceps. He gave them a squeeze. “Well, don’t let it go to your head.” 

“I’m working on giving myself more credit.” He quite liked having a half-naked Draco in his lap, especially when he saw the teasing glint in Draco’s eyes. “Didn’t you say I should?” 

“Oh, don’t listen to everything I say. I speak nonsense most of the time. It’s one of the first things to know about me.” 

“I like your nonsense,” said Harry. “I like you.” His heart clenched a little when Draco cocked his head, his expression softening. 

“I like you too, Potter, but I had no idea we were still third years.” 

“Oh, shut up.” They kissed again, an unhurried press of lips and tongues that skirted the boundaries of urgency. Harry felt he could have gone again, if not for Draco’s regretful sigh. 

“I could stay here all night.” 

“Why don’t you?” 

“Mmm,” was Draco’s nebulous reply.

After another beat, Harry reluctantly allowed Draco to clamber off his lap as gracefully as possible—which wasn’t so graceful at all—and immediately missed the warmth and press of his body. They both found their pants and trousers, which Draco had spelled to fold neatly on one of the other chairs. As they dressed, Harry caught glimpses of Draco out of the corner of his eye. He realised he was probably grinning like an idiot. Long forgotten, the food was cold on the table, and the candles were burning down, the wax dripping and vanishing before it hit the surface, a clever charm borrowed from the Hogwarts Great Hall Encyclopedia of Spells. Harry searched around for his left sock, a new one without holes; it had gone missing in action. 

Draco made a little sound, and Harry turned to see him shoving his hands into his pockets. His face was pale, and he looked peaky, as though he’d eaten something bad.

“Is everything all right?” Harry asked. 

“It’s late,” said Draco, not quite meeting Harry’s eyes. “I have some things to take care of. I’ve got to go.” 

The abruptness of the change in his demeanor stung, and Harry crossed his arms over his chest. If Draco just wanted a shag and run, that was his choice, but Harry wasn’t going to pretend it didn’t bother him. He wanted to take Draco out on a date, get to know him. He was tired of one night stands, and after everything they’d talked about over the last few days, he thought Draco should know that.

“All right. But just so we’re clear, it’s you who’s buggering off.” 

“It’s not like that. Harry—” Draco stepped closer. He had a love bite on his throat, and Harry almost pointed it out but stopped himself. Wherever Draco was going, Harry wanted people to see he’d been claimed, even if they didn’t know by whom. 

“What’s it like, then?”

“It’s complicated. I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow, okay, after the party? Promise.” He pressed a kiss on Harry’s cheek, just next to his lips. “Thank you for dinner and the excellent shag. I’ll expect a repeat, soon.” He smiled again, but it didn’t meet his eyes. Harry searched his face, a feeling of unease making his shoulders tense. Draco was hiding something. 

“You’re sure you’re okay?” he asked again, but Draco was a closed book, his expression carefully neutral. It was so different from how he’d been just minutes before, his face alive with passion and excitement. 

“Fine,” Draco said. “Everything is fine.” 

Harry was sure of only one thing, as Draco vanished through the Floo seconds later: everything was not fine.

***

The party was a brunch planned for late Sunday morning. Harry woke up too early and spent the hours moving restlessly from room to room, unable to sit still. He showered, making sure to use his potions, and changed his outfit twice, which he realised was ridiculous, finally settling on a blue Oxford shirt and grey trousers. He stared at himself in the brand new mirror above the sink. A well-groomed, slightly more familiar stranger looked back at him, but he liked what he saw. Even so, he rolled up his shirtsleeves, not wanting to appear too formal. He was still Harry, after all.

Down in the kitchen, most of the party food was done. He set out the platters that he and Zabini had created the day before and made sure plenty of champagne and pumpkin juice was chilled and ready. 

Finally, at half eleven, the guests started to arrive. 

Hermione and Ron were first, of course, with little Rose in tow. They blinked in surprise, taking in the freshly painted walls and the new furniture. Hermione hoisted Rose onto her left hip and spun around, her attention caught by the new painting above the mantel.

“You finally got rid of those horrible elf heads.” 

The heads in question, though definitely horrible, had been impossible to take down; Harry had tried on a dozen occasions and had finally given up, not understanding the dark magic that bound them to the house. Only a blood relative of the Blacks could remove them. “Draco--er--Malfoy knew a spell.” He hooked his thumbs in his pockets, wondering if either friend would pick up on the name slip. Neither seemed to make anything of it, though. 

“I reckon he has lots of experience with that sort of stuff,” said Ron.

Harry bristled, feeling strangely protective. “You mean with dark magic?” 

“No, mate, I mean fixing up old wizarding houses. It’s what he does, you know.” Ron gestured around. “All this.” 

“Right.” Harry collected himself. He nodded. “So, what do you think?”

“It looks wonderful, Harry, and so do you,” said Hermione, her face flushed and pleased. “I worried it wouldn’t go well, but it seems you all got on together.” 

“It wasn’t that bad. Here, let me give you a tour.” Harry couldn’t help thinking about the night before as they moved from the living room to the dining room. He hadn’t spelled the chair he’d fucked Draco on back to its regular size. He did so now, quickly, while Ron and Hermione were examining the platters of food.

“Smoked salmon. Fancy.” Hermione smiled and plucked a small pickle--cornichon--for Rose to munch. The little girl wrinkled her nose at the taste, but then made a pleased noise and reached for another.

“Poncy,” said Ron, picking up a bruschetta crostini and shoving the whole thing in his mouth. Hermione elbowed him in the ribs with her free arm. 

“Well, I am a ponce,” said Harry, “so I might as well live the part. Care for some champagne?” He held out a flute to Ron and passed him a plate. “And mind the crumbs.” 

“Mind the crumbs. Are you sure you’re Harry Potter? ‘Mione, look out for signs of polyjuice, we might have an imposter on our hands.” 

Harry rolled his eyes as the Floo rang again. Luna and Pansy appeared next, followed by Ginny, Molly Weasley, Andromeda and Teddy. The latter ran up to Harry and threw his arms around Harry’s stomach, his bright blue hair shifting to purple and then magenta. “I missed you! You look nice,” said Teddy. He let Harry go and then leaned closer. “You smell better, too.” 

“Mind your manners, Ted,” said Andromeda, who pressed a kiss to Harry’s cheek. “You do look very handsome, Harry dear. But the old place . . . I can’t even believe my eyes.” They misted over as Harry gave the new arrivals a quick tour of the downstairs. Andromeda hadn’t liked to step foot in Grimmauld Place, though it was a family home. Too many bad memories, she’d told him, and he’d understood. Now, however, he thought she might like to come over to visit with Teddy. The past would never be gone, but the new decor went a long way to change the feel of the place, removing some of its weight.

Molly gave him a big hug, her ample bosom squishing against his chest. “Harry, it all looks lovely. Are you happy?” 

“I am. Thanks.” 

But he wasn’t, not completely. He scanned the gradually increasing crowd, but though Zacharias and Zabini had arrived and were talking to several of Harry’s work colleagues, Draco was nowhere to be seen. Harry thought again about the previous night, how quickly Draco had left. Maybe he’d regretted it and had lied to get away. The thought did much to darken Harry’s mood, though he tried to keep a smile on his face for the sake of his friends and family. He didn’t want them to worry about him anymore, and he would be fine . . . with or without Draco.

“Harry, love,” said Pansy, grabbing him by the elbow and ushering him toward the side of the room. “I knew there was a face under that dead animal. You look absolutely ravishing.” She kissed both cheeks, but her eyes were worried as she glanced over her shoulder to make sure they were alone. 

“What is it, Pans?” Harry’s stomach curdled with dread. “Where’s Draco?”

“Have you seen the _Prophet_ this morning?” 

Harry shook his head. He’d been too busy and nervous preparing to read the Sunday paper.

Pansy’s lips formed a thin, grim line. Out of her small handbag, she spelled a tiny paper, which grew until Harry could read the headline and see the picture: his face in a before and after photo. _Savior Saved from Himself: Harry Potter’s Troubles Transformed_ by Rita Skeeter.

Harry scowled, ripping the paper from her hands. He scanned the article, heart thumping angry beats as he read about how fucked up his life was and how Malfoy and his team had saved him from “certain early death”. It hurt like a bludger to the head, especially as he read details that he’d divulged in his own home, details never meant for public consumption. And now his insecurities, his pain, were on display for the world to see--again--but this time as an advertisement for Malfoy’s bloody business.

“I’m so sorry,” said Pansy. “I have no idea why he would do this.” 

So it was true, then. Malfoy was the culprit. He crumpled up the paper and shouted a terse _Incendio_ which had the whole room turning toward him to see what was wrong. 

In that moment, the Floo whooshed again, and the person who stepped out was the last one Harry wanted to see. Malfoy looked ill. He had large circles under his eyes, and his face was paler than usual. He still wore the same clothes from the night before . . . the shirt Harry had fucked him in, and Harry’s heart lurched into his throat. He blinked back the heat in his eyes, not wanting Malfoy or anyone else to see how it hurt. He had been such a fool. He had trusted Malfoy, shared something so intimate only to be thrown to the wolves. No wonder Malfoy had wanted to escape the previous night. He’d probably been drowning in guilt, if he even felt such emotions.

“You,” said Harry, his hand shaking as he drew his wand. The crowd gasped and parted as Draco took one step, and then another, holding up his hands. 

“Harry, it isn’t what you think.” 

“Isn’t it? I can bloody well read, you know. You utter bastard.” From around him, Harry could hear people talking, asking each other what was going on. It appeared no one in the room had yet gotten a look at the trash rag the Wizarding world called a paper. Harry continued advancing on Malfoy, whose eyes widened with fear and something else, almost like regret. 

“Harry, please--”

“Don’t. Don’t say another word. Get out of my house or I’ll hex you, I swear to Merlin I will.” 

Malfoy’s face crumpled. He looked around the room, as though searching for a friend, but no one stepped up. These were Harry’s people, and even Zabini and Pansy looked a little conflicted. In spite of his anger, Harry’s chest twinged to see Malfoy so alone.

“Fine.” Malfoy smoothed out his rumpled shirt, his haughty affect back in place. “You would think the worst of me, wouldn’t you? I see everything much more clearly now.” And with that, he turned and grabbed a fistful of Floo Powder, disappearing into green flame.

***

Several miserable days later, Harry found himself back at work and confronted, not with the mountain of paperwork he’d dreaded, but with the stares and whispers of his colleagues, who had clearly read the article. Sympathetic smiles and murmurs followed him wherever he went, so he shut himself in his office on the pretence of ‘catching up’.

Not much had happened in his absence. Goldstein had charged a goblin in the Gringott’s theft and everyone seemed to be working diligently on the potions case. It was almost as though things were better without him there. He spent the morning staring blankly at his desk and willing the day to end so he could head home for his bed and a bottle of Ogden’s. 

Home. In spite of everything, that’s what Grimmauld felt like now, and Harry couldn’t quite reconcile his feelings of gratitude with his anger and disappointment at Malfoy. He had allowed Malfoy into his life, but it wasn’t the superficial wardrobe and grooming alterations that had changed everything--it was the way Malfoy had seemed to understand how Harry felt. He had given Harry permission to value himself, to take care of himself. Even to think he deserved a partner. Someone to care about. 

Could he accept that those things might still be true, even if the part Malfoy had played was self-serving? That’s what Hermione had said, at least, on her way out from the party that had soon fizzled after Malfoy’s departure. But maybe it was all a lie. 

The thoughts circled again and again, swirling in his mind until Harry wished he could ask a junior Auror to come in and _Oblivate_ him. Surely that would be better than to remember the feel of Malfoy’s heated skin under his hands, the sound of his moans as he came. 

At around three, there was a knock. Someone had a death wish.

“Go away,” Harry said. “I’m busy.” 

“Really, mate?” said Ron, his voice slightly muffled from the other side of the door. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’re moping.” 

“You can’t see me.” 

“But I’m not wrong, am I?”

Harry sighed and flicked his wand to unlatch the lock. Ron gave him a small smile as he stepped inside and closed the door again behind him. He looked like he’d just come in from the field. His work robes were open, and the shirt underneath was sweaty. It had been strange, at first, being Ron’s boss, but Ron was now the head of a squadron of Aurors and had assured Harry he wouldn’t want to be in his place. He loved the chase too much. Harry wondered, not for the first time, whether it had been a mistake giving it up, putting the needs of others above his own. Kingsley had insisted he was the right man for the job, but what if he’d been wrong? What if Tony Goldstein was really the better choice? 

“All right,” said Ron, flopping down in his chair, “I’m here to tell you you’re being a git, as per ‘Mione’s instructions. She said you aren’t answering any of her Owls.” 

Harry winced. He had gotten a couple of concerned notes over the past several days, but had incinerated them rather than reading them. He hadn’t wanted to risk getting a post from Malfoy. 

“Sorry. I’ve been—busy.”

“Busy moping. You really do like him, don’t you? The ferret, I mean.” Ron looked more thoughtful than he had any right to be.

Harry blanched. “How do you—”

“It’s so bloody obvious you might as well spell it across the sky.”

“Is that what Hermione said?” 

“No. I mean, you called him Draco. And you just about took my head off when you thought I was accusing him of using Dark Magic, so I’d say that about did it.”

“Oh,” said Harry, sitting back in his chair. “I didn’t realise you’d noticed that.” 

Ron poked at his head. “I’m a lot smarter than you give me credit for, mate. Plus, Pansy told me that Malfoy told her you two had—” His face twisted into a grimace. “I don’t want any of the details, by the way, but I think you should talk to him.”

“Talk to him? Ron, you saw what he did, what Skeeter wrote. I can’t . . .” He trailed off, the rush of emotions coming back again. It had been just like what happened with David, only worse, because David had only been a fling. Harry had never wanted more, and he’d never let David see the things he’d let Draco see, even in their short time together. 

Still, he couldn’t quite get Malfoy’s final words at the party out of his head. _You would think the worst of me, wouldn’t you?_ Well, what was Harry supposed to think? Pansy had confirmed Malfoy had leaked the information to the press.

“Do you know for sure it was Malfoy who blabbed to Skeeter?” Ron asked. 

Harry leaned forward, putting his elbows on the desk with a thump. “What?” 

“Listen, Pansy talked to Malfoy. She says it’s all a big misunderstanding, but you’re too bone-headed to hear anyone out. You jumped to the conclusion it was Malfoy because that was the easiest explanation given your history. Look, I don’t know all the details, but I think you should go and talk to him. Maybe you can get him to forgive you.” 

“Forgive _me_?” The words sounded strange on his tongue, and Ron was looking at him with a mixture of pity and sympathy. 

“You do tend to act first, ask questions later.” 

“I thought the worst of him.” Harry’s stomach bottomed out. It was possible he’d really messed up. He couldn’t get the image of Malfoy appearing in the Floo, his hair and clothes in disarray, pleading with Harry to listen. 

“You know I’m not a huge fan of ferret face, but If you like him, go get him.” 

Harry stood up, pushed back his chair and grabbed his wand. “Thanks, Ron.” 

“Mate?” Ron called as Harry strode toward the door. “You might want to fix your hair first. You look like you’ve been attacked by a blast-ended skrewt. And are you really going to wear those old glasses?” 

Harry rolled his eyes. “Oh, sod off,” he said, but he did run his hands through his hair after he was out of eyeshot, just to be safe.

***

The flat was in a Muggle block, which was the last thing that Harry expected. The other thing he wasn’t expecting was for Draco to refuse to let him in.

“Draco,” said Harry. “We need to talk.” He peered into the tiny peephole but could only see black.

“I’m sorry, I’ve no money to donate to panhandlers today,” came the snide reply from the other side of the door. “The nearest homeless shelter is on Tottenham Court Road.”

“Ha ha, very funny.” Harry said. His hair must look worse than he feared. “Will you please open up? I’m not leaving until you do.”

“Well, you’ll be standing out there for a very long time. I suggest you spare yourself the trouble. The shelter only accepts new clients until six if you want to get a cot.” 

“You utter wanker,” said Harry. “Would it help to know that I think I may have been wrong?” 

Silence. Then, a hesitant reply. “It might.” 

Harry crossed his arms. “If you don’t open the damn door, I’ll blast it. I swear to Merlin I will.” 

“Wandlessley?” 

“If you please.” Harry tried to hide his smile. 

A few seconds later, the door cracked open and a cool grey eye appeared under a fringe of white-blond hair. “Come in, if you must.” 

Harry did. The flat was beautiful, as of course it would be, decorated in the highest taste. Everything was bright, light and airy. A huge window made the smallish living room feel larger, and the wood floor glinted in the sun. Draco, however, looked a bit worse for wear. He was clean and tidy, but his face was drawn and he still had the dark circles under his eyes, which seemed to have gotten worse. And there was a smear of something on his lower lip. Chocolate. As if sensing Harry saw something, Draco wiped his face and flushed, and only then did Harry notice the pint of ice cream in his hand, complete with dripping spoon. 

“Mint chocolate chip,” Harry said approvingly. “My favourite.” 

“Oh, well I can’t spare any,” said Draco. “I’m eating my feelings, you see.” 

“Better than what I’ve been doing with mine,” said Harry. He wanted to reach out and touch but he was certain Draco would hex him. “Can we sit somewhere?” 

Draco nodded, leading Harry from the front door to the white leather sofa which looked and felt as soft as butter. Just beyond the living room, Harry caught a glimpse of Draco’s bedroom, dominated by a huge king-sized bed with a green canopy. 

“You don’t live in the Manor any more,” Harry said, suddenly unsure of where to start. He rubbed his sweaty palms on his knees. Malfoy sat a measured distance away

“Obviously.” Malfoy raised his eyebrows. “How did you get my address?” 

“Pansy.” 

“Of course, the traitorous cow.” Draco set his pint of ice cream on the side table next to the couch. “Why do I even bother having friends?”

“So,” Harry said after another awkward silence. “About the article--” 

“It was Smith,” said Draco. “Not me. Just to get that out of the way.” 

Harry took in the information with a mixture of shock and confusion. Zacharias, who had flirted and seemed so innocuous, who had done such a careful job with Grimmauld. “I don’t understand. Why?” 

“There was no nefarious intent, merely self interest. He knew it would be good for business,” said Draco with a shrug. “I didn’t realise what was happening until I read Theo’s Owl, the other night at yours. After we’d, you know.” He flushed, and the colour ran down his cheeks to stain his chest, which was partly visible due to the V-neck of his white tee. Harry tried not to stare. “Theo has a contact at the paper. I rushed out to try to stop the printing, but I was too late.” 

Harry’s mind travelled back to that night. He remembered the Owl that had come for Draco to Grimmauld and how Zabini had given it to Draco on his arrival. He hadn’t read it right away. “Oh. _Oh_.” Things began to fall into place: Draco’s abrupt change in demeanor, the way he’d left in such a hurry. Harry had read those moments wrongly, but he hadn’t had all of the information. 

“Why didn’t you tell me then?” 

Draco shrugged. “I thought I could take care of it so you would never have to know. I didn’t want to ruin what was happening between us. But you’re right. I should have told you.” 

A dog barked in a neighboring flat, and a warm breeze ruffled the gauzy white curtains, which Harry thought he recognized from the Manor. They contrasted with the rest of the place’s luxurious, masculine finish in a pleasing way.

“Never trust a Hufflepuff,” said Draco. “That’s one of the Slytherin golden rules. I must’ve been mad when I hired that pillock.” He picked up his pint again and spooned a bite of ice cream into his mouth. “Another is never sleep with a Gryffindor, and I broke that one as well.” 

“I’m glad you did.” Harry edged closer, but Draco’s mouth was set in a firm line. “What about Ravenclaws; do you have any rules about them?” he tried, hoping he might earn a smile. 

Draco closed his eyes and drew a deep breath. “I don’t think we should see each other, Harry, if that’s what this is about. It was a mistake. There’s too much history between us, too much bad blood. Your first instinct was to lash out at me, and I can’t blame you, not after what I’ve done. Who I’ve hurt.” He sounded small, wounded, and not at all like he wanted to believe what he was saying.

Harry cleared his throat, turning to Draco. “I was an arse at the party. I didn’t listen to you, and I’m sorry. I let my emotions get the better of me. It hurt to think you would do that after the week we shared. It reminded me of all the times I’ve trusted people and been let down, but it was worse, because . . . I feel something for you. 

“We can’t ignore the history between us, but I don’t think we should ignore the good things, either. We’re good together. Could be, I mean. I’m not getting this out right.” Harry shook his head, frustrated with himself. He’d never been very good at expressing his feelings, especially when they related to another person. If he mucked this up, he was pretty sure he wouldn’t get a do-over. “I’m just asking for a chance.” 

“A chance.” Draco seemed to be testing the word. “I’m still the Draco you used to know, Harry. For a while, I tried to deny it. I did—do—sometimes still feel the need to prove, to myself mostly, that the boy I was is gone. But he’s not. He never will be. He’s still a part of me. And if you suspect the worst every time something happens . . .” He trailed off, his hands clenching the fabric of his trousers.

Harry nodded. “I know that. My past self lives within me too. But I wasn’t lying when I told you I wanted to take you out. I’d like a chance to get to know each other for who we are now, to see how it goes.” 

“I thought you were just trying to get a shag.” 

“Well, I don’t mind doing that, either.” Harry couldn’t hold back his grin. He really, really wouldn’t mind another shag, hopefully in the near future. He could tell Draco was wavering, his eyes flickering to Harry and back to his ice cream as he bit his bottom lip. 

“You’re wearing your old glasses,” Draco said quietly. “You didn’t like the Armanis?” 

Harry scratched the side of his face. “They’re okay. But . . . these are me. I mean, I like a lot of the changes we made, but some things aren’t ever going to change. I’m not fancy, and I don’t care a lot about material things. I never have. I’m just . . . me. Just Harry. Albeit a bit cleaner and more organised.” 

Somewhere outside, a siren went off. The sounds of traffic drifted through the open window. Summer was in full swing, and the days stretched out ahead long and full of promise. Harry held his breath, waiting for Draco’s response. 

“I never expected this,” said Draco. He inched closer to Harry on the sofa, the space between them crackling with energy. It was the most hopeful thing that had happened yet, and all of Harry’s senses sharpened, anticipating what would come next. “When you told me to get out, I was angry, but I also felt like you were right. Like I didn’t--don’t--deserve your interest or your time.” 

“Is that why you left your shirt on the other night?” Harry asked.

Draco frowned. “Yes, and . . . I didn’t want you to see this.” Draco pulled down the neck of his T-shirt farther, exposing his left pectoral. A webbing of scars criss-crossed from the muscle down, the rest hidden under the material. “Bit of a mood killer.” 

The raised pink lines made Harry’s blood run cold, his body remembering the day it had happened even as his mind tried to forget. “That’s from the Sectrumsempra.” It was a nasty spell, and one of Harry’s oldest and deepest regrets. Since that night he had seen it in use a handful of times as an Auror, and it was never pretty. Often people didn’t survive. 

“I didn’t want you to see because I knew you’d react like a kicked Kneazle. Like I said, our history is . . . problematic.” 

“I’m sorry.” 

Draco smiled ruefully, letting go of his shirt and smoothing out the fabric. “I forgave you a long time ago.” 

Harry moved, finally closing the gap so that their thighs pressed against each other. He took Draco’s hand in his, surprised to find it cool despite the heat, and entwined their fingers together. “Maybe you can teach me to forgive myself.” 

“I’m afraid that’s beyond even my considerable talents. But I do know a good Mind Healer.” Draco’s lips twisted into a wry smile.

It was a good sign Draco wasn’t yanking his hand away. Harry gave it a light squeeze. “Tell me to leave, and I will. I won’t bother you again.” 

“I don’t want you to leave,” said Draco, squeezing back. His mouth turned up at the corners, and his grey eyes held a hint of mischief. “Let’s go out on a date.”

***

Epilogue ~ 6 Months Later  
‘  
In spite of the cold winter weather, the garden at the back of Grimmauld place was bursting with life. Ivy climbed the brick walls, and ferns burst forth from every crack between the walkway stones. There were bright purple bellflowers, sprays of pink coralbells, and white and blue delphiniums all vying for space near the new wooden bench Harry had just installed. In fact, Harry had almost too much luck with his planting. The garden was beginning to look a bit overgrown.

He stood up and wiped his hands together, his knees cracking from kneeling in the dirt for so long. After a pleased glance around, he gathered his tools and spelled them toward the new work shed at the back of the garden, just beyond the small pond. He’d been working for almost three hours, and it was getting dark. Harry smiled. Draco would be home soon. 

He went inside to wash up, only to collide with his boyfriend, who was coming out to find him. Harry reached out to steady Draco before he tripped down the stairs.

“You look happy,” said Draco, his cheeks and nose pink from cold. Harry leaned in and nuzzled his face.

“I am.”

“Enjoying your holiday?” 

“Very much so.” Harry had scaled back his hours to a reasonable forty soon after he and Draco had started dating, and he was making a concerted effort to take breaks when necessary thanks to the advice of his Mind Healer. Tony Goldstein had proven himself an effective leader in Harry’s absence, and Harry actually found he got more done when he took time for himself. 

Of course he also needed more time to spend with Draco, both in and out of bed. In, particularly. He pressed a kiss to Draco’s jaw, then moved to his neck, and Draco threw his head back and let out a throaty laugh, grasping Harry’s shoulders. “I like it when you garden. It makes you randy.” 

“You make me randy,” said Harry. 

“Mmm,” Draco replied, pressing their lower bodies together. 

The last few months had been a whirlwind of ups and downs, especially when the _Prophet_ got wind of Harry’s new relationship. He hadn’t bothered trying to keep it out of the paper, but he also refused to give Skeeter any details no matter how she hounded. He was keeping some things for himself. 

People approved and disapproved, but the only thing that mattered to Harry was what his friends thought, and they were squarely in the former category. They had even thrown the two of them a surprise housewarming party when Draco had decided to move in to Grimmauld a few weeks before.

“How was your client today?” Harry asked, breathing against Draco’s warm skin. 

“Oh, the bloke is a true closet case, unfortunately, but Theo, Blaise and I will do our best.” Not long after Zacharias had blabbed to the _Prophet_ , Draco had canned him. The last thing Harry’d heard, he was working in a Muggle shop. He didn’t wish Zacharias ill anymore; he was just glad he didn’t have to see him on a regular basis. 

“You always do.” Harry nipped at Draco’s Adam’s apple. He loved the way Draco tasted when he’d been working all day, slightly salty and sweet at the same time. “You want to tell me about it?” 

“I don’t think we have time,” said Draco. “I booked a pitch for tonight. I could use a little relaxation myself.” 

Harry grinned. He had lots of ideas about how they could relax together, but flying would do for now. “Let me get cleaned up.”

***

The night was clear, cold and silent. Harry whizzed through the air, passing Draco with a final burst of speed to capture the glinting Snitch, which was like ice in his grip. He let out a cry of victory, though he’d long stopped tallying points for their sparring.

Draco pulled up fast, breathing hard. His hair was messy, his shirt half untucked. He looked brilliant, and Harry wanted to snog him silly.

“Not bad, Potter,” he said, his eyebrow rising and a slight blush staining his cheeks.

“I have to stay in top form or you’ll leave me for another Quidditch player.”

“Don’t be daft. I only dated them because they reminded me of you.” 

Harry’s breath hitched, and he reached out, tugging Draco close. Their brooms knocked against each other as they kissed, swaying in the breeze.

“Ngh,” Draco said when Harry moved to his neck. Harry loved how he could drive Draco wild with just a few strategically placed kisses. He was especially sensitive right under his ear. “Keep doing that.” 

Harry grinned and took Draco’s face in his hands, looking into eyes that mirrored his own. He could hardly believe that this was real, that he was in love with Draco Malfoy. And that Draco loved him back. “Oh, I intend to. For a very, very long time.”


End file.
